



























































































By Dr . Walter E . Traprock, F,R.S,S.E.U< 


The Cruise of the Kawa 
My Northern Exposure 
Sarah of the Sahara 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 



















































































. 





















































- 












. 

■ , ■ '• • 

. 




» 













Super-Stars of Traprock’s Super-Feature Film “ Sarah of the Sahara 










/ 

SARAH OF THE SAHARA 

A ROMANCE OF NOMADS LAND 


c ® Y o- urtfy*. 

WALTER E. TRAPROCK C ^ 1 £,, ci . 


AUTHOR OF THE CRUISE OF THE KAWA, 
“ MY NORTHERN EXPOSURE ” 


/ / 

WITH SEVENTEEN FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 
Ube fmtcfeerbocfcer press 

1923 




PS3505 

1113 


Copyright, 1923 

by / 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 



Made in the United States of America 


V 


A 1 


0 l 

_ A a Q fh 


OCT 11'23 

C1A759349 

'Wt 


0 



y 


\ 






To 

S. W. 








. * 

j 

v 









h> 

■4 




CONTENTS 


Chapter I 

Love at First Sight. 

Chapter II 

Our First Interview 

Chapter III 

Into the Great Unknown 

Chapter IV 

The Wandering Wimpoles 

Chapter V 

Love and Lions 


page 

1 

. 19 

. 35 

. 53 

. 67 


Chapter VI 

A Desperate Predicament 

Chapter VII 
The Escape 

Chapter VIII 

Sheik to Sheik . * 

Chapter IX 

Mine at Last! . 


. 109 

. 121 

. 139 


vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


Chapter X 

Death in the Desert 

Chapter XI 

Antony and Cleopatra 

Chapter XII 

The Tomb of Dimitrino . 

Chapter XIII 
Buried Alive . 

Chapter XIV 
Love Lost 


PAGE 

• . 157 

. 167 

. 181 

. . 195 

. 207 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

(From photographs taken for the Super-Feature Film of Dr. 
Traprock’s story recently released by the AU-for-Art 
Production Co. of Derby, Conn.) 

PAGE 

Super-Stars of Traprock's Super-Feature Film 
“Sarah of the Sahara” . . . Frontispiece 

Lady Sarah Wimpole.7 

Lord Horace Wimpole.27 

Ab-Domen Allah ....... 47 

At the Oasis of Arag-Wan ...... 57 

A Desert Diana .. 71 

Alone at Last ........ 83 

Reginald Whinney ....... 91 

Azad the Terrible . . . « . . .101 

Zaloofa. 117 

The Rescue .127 

Sheik to Sheik .135 

Twin Bedouins of the East . . . . .*151 

ix 









X 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

An Egyptian Deity. 175 

On the Outskirts of Assouan . . . . .187 
In the Shadow of the Pyramid . . . . .213 
Sad Memories.221 



SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Chapter I 
Love at First Sight 



















SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Chapter I 

“Allah! Allah! Bishmillah. El Traprock, 
Dhub ak Moplah! . . . Wullahy! Wullahy!” 

Long, long after their echoes have died away the 
cries of my desert men ring on my ears. Still do 
I see myself as, in a cloud of dust, at the head of 
my band of picked nomads, my burnous floating 
above me so that I looked like a covered wagon, 
with the drumming thunder of a hundred hoofs and 
the wild yells of my followers, I swept like a 
cyclone to the rescue of one of the fairest creatures 
of my favorite sex. 

O Sarah! my desert mate, whom I have hymned 
in terms of pomegranates, peacock’s-eyes and ala¬ 
baster columns, lovely lady for whom I trained my 
tongue to the notes of the nightingale and my 
fingers to the intricacies of the lute, elusive crea¬ 
ture, startled doe that ever fled before my bent bow 


4 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


and keen-edged arrows only to be struck down at 
last by agonizing love, light of my spirit, breath of 
my soul, warmth of my body, why, O all-of-these- 
and-much-more, did’st thou flee from El Sheik 
Traprock, Dhub of the Moplah Tribe? . . . Wul- 
lahy! 

Alas! She may not answer, my fair bride of the 
silences, for she has been plucked from me, she has 
passed beyond my ken. Let me then speak for her, 
my sweet bird, my tower of gold-and-ivory, my tall 
building agleam with rubies, my . . . but first let 
me descend from the heaven of her memory and 
cease from singing of the musical Moplahs. 

In other words let me get back to earth and, in 
regular language, try to describe her as I first saw 
her. 


It was on the pier-head at Cannes: the time, sun¬ 
set. She stood, outlined against the flaming sky, 
a tall, angular figure. In the fading light I took 
no note of details but there was that in the woman’s 
silhouette which gripped me. My heart stopped 
. . . missed a beat . . . and hurried on. 

Strange and mysterious, the influence of human 
personalities! Her mere presence was a challenge 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


5 


at which I bristled. Through my nerve-centers 
flashed deep messages of interest, attraction . . . 
animosity. Here, plainly, was no easy quarry. 

As tense and alert as a setter on-the-point I stood 
watching the lean figure. At the back of my head 
I felt a light tickling sensation as if a hand had 
passed upward over my hair; my nostrils, I dare 
say, dilated. 

Her back was toward me and she was gazing at 
the luminous waters of the “Baie des Anges.” 
Caught in her close-cropped, reddish-brown hair 
the last sun’s rays shone in a golden aureole so that 
in this respect she might have been one of the angels 
for whom the bay is named. But the angelic sug¬ 
gestion ended there. In all else she was warm, 
vital, human, a vibrant personality with a hint of 
almost masculine strength beneath the folds of her 
tan silk jacket and short walking skirt. One arm 
was akimbo and through the triangle thus formed 
I could see, by odd coincidence, the distant shape 
of my yawl, the Kawa, from which I had just 
landed. 

My arrival in Cannes had been meaningless, the 
chance debarkation of a wanderer in search of rest 
after arduous voyaging in the far North, the aim¬ 
less pursuit of warmth, comfort and sunshine. I 


LADY SARAH WIMPOLE 


“Her mere presence was a challenge at which I bristled, 
was no easy quarry.” 


Here 



Lady Sarah Wimpole 




























- 





. 



• 

* • 































































































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


9 


had intended, as far as my formless plans had any 
intention, stopping over the night at Cannes, then 
pushing on to the various Mediterranean ports, 
through Suez to the great East. My vague objec¬ 
tive was the Nicobars, off Sumatra, where I had 
promised to call on a devoted old Andamanian 
when the opportunity offered. 

Now, in an instant all that was changed. Van¬ 
ished my Andamanian friend, my vague intentions. 
Here, within a few feet of me, in the person of this 
unknown woman was adventure, mystery, romance, 
an immediate objective, a citadel to be stormed, a 
problem to be solved, an adversary to be overcome, 
a mate to be . . . who knows what lies in wait for 
him around the corner? I only know that in a 
twinkling life had become purposeful, fascinating, 
electric. 

She seemed to feel something of this riotous zip 
which I was projecting toward her for she turned 
suddenly and with a quick, awkward gesture, 
pulled on a soft straw hat and began walking in my 
direction. I immediately withdrew among a maze 
of packing-cases, orange boxes and other freight 
with which the pier was cumbered. Instinct told me 
it was not the time for our meeting. I had come 
ashore only for a few necessary supplies and I was 


10 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


very much in fatigue uniform. Also I was bare¬ 
footed in which condition a man can never look his 
best. 

A moment later she strode unsuspectingly past 
the pile of orange boxes which screened me. I 
caught the impression of a distinctly patrician type 
with rigidly drawn features in which an aquiline 
nose predominated. I had only a glimpse but, as 
in the wink of a camera shutter, a clear image of 
that austere profile was imprinted upon the sen¬ 
sitive plate of my soul. Developing and printing 
were to come later. One thing was certain; she was 
a personage, not a mere person. 

At the end of the pier she vanished. Vaulting 
from my fruit crate I made toward the string-piece 
where my dingy was gently bumping. I must 
make ship and haul my evening clothes from stow¬ 
age. Once more I was on the trail. 


Fate does not cheat those who trust her. With¬ 
out arrangement on my part I saw my lady again 
within three days. It was bound to happen. 

Though changed entirely as to costume, I knew 
her instantly. She was at the roulette table in the 
glittering salle-de-jeu at Monte Carlo. From afar 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


11 


I saw the tip of a blue ostrich plume, the nodding 
feathers of which seemed to brush against my con¬ 
sciousness. They could belong to none other. 

Again the imperious call and challenge flashed 
between us as I took a seat opposite hers where I 
could study her features while I tossed my chips 
on the table. She looked up at once and I held her 
with my gaze. For the first time our glances met. 
I was oblivious of my surroundings. The brilliant 
room, the gay crowd, the alert croupier, all sank 
into nothingness as I focussed my eyes on hers, re¬ 
solved that in this first interchange I should not 
yield. Her eyes, amazingly blue, looked into mine 
for a long instant, then dropped to the Cross of St. 
Botolphe which glittered on my shirt-bosom. I 
wore no other jewels save the agate-and-iron signet 
ring which his Britannic majesty—but that is 
neither here nor there. A faint smile played at the 
corners of my lady’s lips. It was enough. She had 
taken note of my presence. 

She was plainly a great lady of the type which 
England alone can produce, one of those rangy, 
imperial, dominating creatures in whom seem to be 
compacted innumerable generations of conquering 
invaders, Derby-winners, stalwart cricketers and 
astute statesmen. The prevailing color of her per- 


12 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


son was red, or, to be more accurate, sandy, the short 
hair being without any tinge of the pink or henna 
which reeks of the coiffeurs’ art. Her complexion 
was of a salmon or apricot shade, made almost 
golden by the overtone of pale, downy fuzz which so 
often accompanies it. Crowning the crisply curled 
locks was a regal tiara of large emeralds into which 
the blue ostrich feather was stuck at a jaunty angle. 
Never before had I seen a tiara on bobbed hair and 
the effect coupled with the red and green color 
scheme was extremely diverting. One felt at once 
that here was a woman who would dare anything. 

Being black myself the aureate color of her skin 
struck on my heart like a gong. Her brows and 
lashes were so pale as to be almost albinesque. 
Above and below a generous, full-lipped mouth her 
dominant nose contended for supremacy with an 
obstinate chin. Tanned cheeks spoke plainly of 
life in the open as did her strong but well-kept 
hands upon which shone several important emer¬ 
alds. But what stirred me most were her arms. 

Costume makes little or no impression on me. 
The general effect of what she wore was hard and 
steely, but gorgeous. The color was mainly white 
with a great slash of sky-blue introduced some¬ 
where. I had the feeling of being in the presence 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


13 


of a lady-mayor or an important ambassadress. In 
any case, her arms were exposed beyond the elbow 
and to my delight they were generously freckled, 
not with coarse, country-style, ginger-bread mot- 
tlings, but with fine, detached discs no bigger than 
pin heads and pure gold in color. Over these pale 
paillettes grew the silky fur of which I have spoken. 
For some reason freckles always excite me, pro¬ 
bably because I can never hope to have any except 
vicariously. 

She was playing for high stakes, using only hun¬ 
dred-franc chips and winning with a consistency 
that attracted the inevitable cortege about her chair, 
the jackals who try to follow a winner or steal a 
system by peering over one’s shoulder. 

I could but admire the coolness with which she 
turned and pushed away the face of an ornamental 
Russian woman, the Princess Sonia Subikoff, 
notorious adventuress and parasite, whose covetous 
features kept thrusting themselves under the play¬ 
er’s elbow. Done by one less sure of herself the 
action would have provoked a terrific scene. As it 
was, the outraged Princess, soi-disant, struck 
savagely at the blonde back of the English-woman. 
The blow resounded as if she had hit a packing- 
case, producing no more effect than a shrug and a 


14 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


cheerful grin as la Subikoff made off, nursing a 
lame hand and hissing spiteful comment on the 
animal anglaise. Coolly, superbly, the Anglo- 
Saxon continued her play, placing her chips with 
a nonchalant sweep of her great arms. In every 
movement was the same underlying hint of power¬ 
ful bony sub-structure. 

“Elle est dure ” said a voice at my side. 

“Qui far 

“La belle laide, en face ? 

I turned with an instinctive hostility toward the 
speaker, his voice, manner . . . everything. To 
discuss a woman, openly, in a public place. . . . 
La belle laide! . . . and yet, was she not just 
that? There is a merciless precision in the Latin 
tongue. 

My neighbors were a type I detest,—Peruvians, 
I judged by the barbarous Spanish clang of their 
French; sleek, oily, anointed with perfume from 
their lacquered hair to their equally shining boots, 
tailored, corsetted, manicured and with that fawn¬ 
ing look so unpleasantly suggestive of the oriental. 
One was playing for small stakes while his com¬ 
panion looked on, but I noticed that both were nar¬ 
rowly watching the English woman and exchang¬ 
ing whispered comments. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


15 


Something was in the wind and my submerged 
sense of suspicion began to stir. 

“Flute!” cried one of the South-Americans, 
which is a strong imprecation in French, “She wins 
like a fiend.” 

“Zut” replied the other as his last chip passed 
under the rake. 

I turned to my own play, a system which I 
picked up in Buenos Ayres, a sure winner of small 
amounts. After two hours I was four and a half 
francs ahead and the pastime was beginning to bore 
me. Rising, I saw that the Peruvians had separat¬ 
ed, one having crossed to the other side of the table 
directly back of the English woman while the other 
loitered near the croupier’s desk. 

In a flash I divined their plan just in time to 
act. As the man near the croupier engaged him 
in conversation I saw the other’s hand shoot out 
and seize a large pile of bank-notes weighted down 
with a stack of golden louis. I could not possibly 
reach the fellow or the louis, but I could and did 
reach the door. 

As our paths converged I saw that in his left 
hand he held an automatic. Acting entirely on in¬ 
stinct I threw in his face a handful of small change, 
keys, pen-knife, etc., from my trouser pocket. At 


16 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


the same instant I dove. His bullet roared, harm¬ 
less, over my head and together we crashed to the 
marble floor. The thief had never seen a foot-ball 
game and expected something entirely different. 

As we struggled he attempted to turn the wea¬ 
pon on me but my grip was like steel. The room 
was in an uproar. Hither and yon we threshed 
about over the polished pavement. In one of our 
gyrations my foot caught under the teak-wood base 
of a huge Japanese jar. Fascinated I watched it 
tremble, totter . . . and fall into a thousand frag¬ 
ments about us. Then the confusion was punctuat¬ 
ed by a sharp report and my adversary lay sudden¬ 
ly still. He had shot himself during the struggle, 
whether by accident or design I can not say. 

Rising I looked about and tendered a handful of 
golden coins and billets-de-banque to the tall, mas¬ 
terful woman who stood near me. 

“Top-hole,” she said, quite simply. “You must 
come to see me.” 

She handed me her card, which I accepted, bow¬ 
ing. There were some tedious formalities neces¬ 
sary at the local poste de police and it was after 
midnight when I reached my room and took the 
card from my pocket. “Lady Sarah Wimpole,” I 
read beneath a simple crest, a swan volant holding 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


17 


a snake in its beak and the device “Nunc pro 
tunc 

Our paths had crossed. Matters were coming on 
apace. 




























4 




















Chapter II 


Our First Interview 




Chapter II 


“Dr. Traprock?” 

She held the card which had preceded me. Salut¬ 
ing in the continental manner, I bent over her ex¬ 
tended hand, noting the strong, square nails with 
their perfect crescent moons at the base. 

“Lady Wimpole.” 

She motioned me to a complicated wicker chair 
of Malaysian make which brought back vividly my 
years in Mindanao. 

“You were splendid the other night,” she said. 
Her voice surprised me. It was harsh, like the note 
of a grackle or the cry of a sea-bird, full of strange 
breaks, guttural depths and moving dissonances. 

As we talked I took in the details of our sur¬ 
roundings. We were seated in the morning-room 
of the Villa Bianca, an exquisitely appointed man¬ 
sion of lemon-yellow stucco embowered in a riot of 
roses, bougainvillea and flowering bugloss-vines. 
From beyond the walls of the formal entrance gar¬ 
den the noises of the town reached us faintly. The 
21 


22 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Monocan populace were celebrating the fete of St. 
Yf whose favor is supposed to bring good luck at 
the gaming tables. 

Glancing at my hostess I re-experienced the con¬ 
viction that she was a surprising woman. Odd in¬ 
deed was the contrast she made with her surround¬ 
ings. The room was of an indescribable dainti¬ 
ness. Overhead arched a pale blue plaster dome 
upon which painted birds flitted among fleecy 
clouds or perched upon blossoming branches. The 
side-walls, except for door and window openings, 
were covered with coral pink studded regularly 
with small crystal buttons, the spacing being ac¬ 
centuated by a connecting diaper-design of silver 
thread. 

From the cornice, at the beginning of the dome, 
hung a deep valance of white lace which was re¬ 
peated in the long window curtains and innumer¬ 
able cushions on chairs, chaise-longue and foot¬ 
stools. The whole room, in fact, seethed with a 
sort of suds of lace and chiffonerie like an old- 
fashioned valentine in the midst of which Lady 
Sarah sat enthroned in a curious chair contrived to 
represent a sea-shell. 

Her costume, as nearly as I could make it out, 
was a voluminous silk prowler or slip-cover of silk 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


23 


matching the walls, and like them, edged with lace. 
An intricate mob-cap covered all but a severe bang 
of red-brown hair which shrieked at its dainty sur¬ 
roundings as loudly as the green parrot who, 
raucous and unconfined, swung acrobatically about 
his perch. 

“Shut up, Selim,” commanded the bird’s mis¬ 
tress; then, having noted my looks of appraisal, 
“Isn’t this place hideous? I hate a room that foams 
at the mouth. My husband takes it for the season. 
Poor creature, his taste is ghastly; he was born in 
Nottingham. This house was built by the govern¬ 
ment for one of the old king’s mistresses. It gives 
Wimpole a thrill merely to rent it.” 

She sank hack languidly into the recesses of her 
shell, suppressing a yawn and I could see the faint 
lines running from the corners of her eyes to the 
lobes of her ears, lines of disillusionment, of hunger 
denied, of . . . 

During the interval since our meeting at the 
Casino I had learned something of her tragic story. 
Born amid the highest and most refined nobility, 
the daughter of Sir Rupert Alleyne and Mary, 
Lady Beaverboard, she had seen her ancestral for¬ 
tune lost by her father in speculative adventures in¬ 
duced by the old taint of the Alleyne madness. In 


24 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


his fifty-third year Sir Rupert inherited by the 
laws of succession the estates and titles of the 
Beaverboard interests, becoming subsequently 
Duke of Axminster. These honors marked the be¬ 
ginning of the end. 

The final crash came with Sir Rupert’s attempt 
to corner the Italian antique market together with 
all the important trans-atlantic steamship lines, his 
idea being to completely control the American de¬ 
mand for ancestral portraits and objets d’art. The 
stately halls of Alleynecourt were thronged with 
continental adventurers freighted down with spuri¬ 
ous Botticelli, Allegretti and other masters. 

When the Duke, raving, was carted away to Old 
Drury, his daughter sought refuge with her uncle, 
Egbert Alleyne, whose scientific works on grapto- 
lites and stromatoporoids kept him impoverished 
and ill-at-ease in a tiny cottage in Gloucestershire. 

Here Horace Wimpole found her. He was at 
that time senior partner in the firm of Wimpole & 
Tripp, laces, of Nottingham, with a peerage in view 
and an o’er-vaulting snobbery which he saw pros¬ 
pects of gratifying by an alliance with the penuri¬ 
ous but well-connected Sarah Alleyne. On her 
side it was a bitter bargain,—her youth, her rugged 
beauty, her hopes of romance in exchange for 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


25 


wealth and comfort for herself and her crazed sire. 
She accepted. 

A week after the Westminster Gazette an¬ 
nounced the bestowal of a title upon Horace, Lord 
Wimpole, the ennobled merchant led his aristo¬ 
cratic bride from the church portico. Blithely rang 
the bells of St. George’s and lustily rose the cheers 
of the bluff English onlookers whose worship of 
nobility and all the panoply thereof is the enduring 
wonder of the world. Wimpole promptly did his 
duty by his father-in-law and had the ancient zany 
removed from Old Drury to a private padded-cell 
in a fashionable asylum. The old man’s last 
w hims y was that he was Admiral Napier and he 
was given the run of a small garden where, in full 
uniform and spy-glass in hand, he made observa¬ 
tions and issued authoritative commands. 

Lady Wimpole was now free, except for the en¬ 
cumbrance of her low-bred husband who had virtu¬ 
ally retired, master of a colossal fortune by means 
of which he proposed to live up to his new estate. 

It was here he made his fatal error. As a busi¬ 
ness man he was a success, for he ran true to type, 
but as an aristocrat he was a hopeless false-alarm. 
Contrary to previous statements, in matters of 
breeding kind hearts can not compare with coro- 


LORD HORACE WIMPOLE 

“As a business man he was a success, for he ran true to type, 
but as an aristocrat he was a hopeless false-alarm.” 


26 



Lord Horace Wimpole 


INH 
























































. 

i , 














































. 












< 
































































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


29 


nets, particularly when the latter have been in the 
family for ten generations. 

Finding himself a failure in the fields of sport, 
riding to or from the hounds, cricket and the active 
exercises, intellectually unable to compete in cul¬ 
tural pursuits such as the writing of memoirs or 
the collecting of sea shells and butterflies, Wim- 
pole was thrown back on the last recourse of afflu¬ 
ent ignorance, travel and dissipation. 

In the latter field he showed a natural aptitude 
which, had it been caught and cultivated in some 
previous generation, might have made him a rather 
attractive rake. But it came too late; he was mere¬ 
ly beastly. Lady Wimpole was quite frank about 
it. 

“Your husband,—is he with you?” I asked. 

She raised her beautiful pinkish eye-lids toward 
the ceiling. “Still asleep ... he was unusually 
crocked last night. You know he has taken up the 
vices. He tries to be brutal.” 

“Does he beat you?” I put the question frank¬ 
ly because I knew it was the traditional thing and 
I felt that she would appreciate a direct method. 

“No,” she said simply. “He would like to but 
he doesn’t dare. He does his worst however. He 
bites.” 


30 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


She slipped back the soft sleeve of her gown and 
extended an arm. I shrank back in horror. The 
dog! A semi-circle of teeth-marks marred the 
salmon-silkiness of the loveliest fore-arm in the 
world. 

Involuntarily I paled and yet felt curiously re¬ 
lieved. This proof of dastardly conduct on her 
husband’s part seemed to make easier the thing 
I knew I should eventually have to do, namely, 
take this gorgeous creature from him. 

Turning toward the parrot to hide my emotion 
I said “Madame,—I am sorry to bring you bad 
news . . . but we are both summoned to appear 
before the local police magistrate the day after 
tomorrow. The charge is murder. You are a 
material witness. The affair is entirely technical, 
but there are unseen influences at work. The 
young man,—the scoundrel who attempted to steal 
your gold, was well-connected, of an old Peru¬ 
vian family. They have cabled representations 
to the Monacan government. The whole affair 
has the look of a nasty, political embroglio. It 
may last some time. I was once called as a wit¬ 
ness to a trolley accident in Jerusalem and six 
months afterward . . . ” 

“I will hear all that later. Today is Tuesday. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


31 


Call for me Thursday morning—what is the hour? 
eleven? Good—be here at ten-thirty: I will not 
fail you. Adios.” 

Again saluting her a la franfaise , I departed. 

For two days I carried her image in my heart. 
I know not how it is with others but when I have 
once decided to love a certain person I find it a 
simple matter to do so. At the first glimpse of 
Lady Wimpole my heart, had, so to speak, as¬ 
sumed a crouching posture. It only remained 
for me to tell my emotions what to do, just as I 
might direct my great police dog, Graustein, to 
stop a suspicious character. By now I was 
thoroughly aroused. The memory of those atro¬ 
cious teeth marks and that blemished fore-arm 
were fresh fuel. 

At exactly ten-thirty on the appointed Thurs¬ 
day I approached the villa. It was close shut¬ 
tered and wore a vacant, deserted look at 
which my heart sank. The gate was locked 
and the bell jangled noisily among deserted rose 
bushes. 

“Curses!” I ground out between clenched 
teeth. “She was toying with me!” 

A step on the gravel interrupted my bitter re¬ 
flections. It was the old gardener. 


32 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“Madame est partie/’ he announced, “et Mon - 
sieur aussi . . . sur le yacht . . . ce matin ” 

A glance toward the bay confirmed his state¬ 
ment; the slim white shape of Wimpole’s yacht, 
the Undine, was no longer in sight. 

“But did they leave no message ?” I demanded. 

He turned aside smiling. 

“Un mot? Sais pas . . . c'est-a-dire . . . 
peut-etre . . 

I saw what he was driving at. Damn the bak¬ 
sheesh hunting tribes! 

“Here,” I said, thrusting a crisp bank-note 
through the bars. Seizing it he fumbled in his 
blouse and produced a large envelope which 
I clutched eagerly, tearing it open as the bearer 
disappeared into the depths of the garden. Be¬ 
neath the now familiar crest, in a bold masculine 
handwriting, I read the simple words, “Meet me 
in the desert, S. W.” 

This thwarting of my desire, this baffling of my 
purpose—was the one thing needed to set my 
blood on fire. On the instant I turned and ran 
down the hill toward the water-side, all thought of 
Monacan courts-of-law completely forgotten. At 
the precise moment when the stately judge-advo¬ 
cate in his purple and green laetitia or official robe 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


33 


opened the Monacan Court, the little Kawa was 
slipping over the Southern horizon toward the 
African mountain wall beyond which lie the limit¬ 
less sands of the Sahara. 

“Meet me in the desert,” she had said. No 
desert on earth could be big enough to hide her. 
My emotions were up, and in full cry! 





■* 











Chapter III 
Into the Great Unknown 


85 









































Chapter III 


Africa! Far away I sighted the purple shadow 
of the land of mystery, the low-lying coast-line 
and interior wall of mountains behind which lay 
the vastness of Sahara. 

We struck the coast at Djidjelli, further East 
than we had anticipated. Captain Triplett, my 
navigator, said that compasses always acted queer- 
ly in these waters which he ascribed to the influ¬ 
ence of occult desert powers, outraged divinities 
and the like. 

“It’s them genuses,” he said, “they raise hell with 
yer.” 

Be that as it may we had to veer sharply in or¬ 
der to make Algiers on the third day after clearing 
from and out of Monte Carlo. The harbor showed 
no trace of the Undine and according to the port- 
authorities she had not touched there, nor was 
there any record of the Wimpole party at the 
leading hotels or travel bureaus. They were gone, 

37 


38 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


swallowed up in the immense folds of the silent, 
brooding Southland. 

“Meet me in the desert!” Lady Sarah’s part¬ 
ing cry rang in my ears. In it I detected the first 
note of appeal suggesting her growing need of 
me, a need of which she was perhaps still uncon¬ 
scious, but which might grow to who knows what. 
Why was I so certain she referred to Sahara, the 
Great Desert? I can not say, but it seemed in¬ 
evitable that she would choose the largest; it was 
in keeping with the majestic, monumental nature 
of the woman. Whatever the reason I was posi¬ 
tive that somewhere in those uncharted wastes I 
should find her. Facing them, as I stood on the 
quarter-deck with Whinney, my acting-first-offi- 
cer, I pressed Lady Wimpole’s letter in my breast 
pocket and whispered softly “I come, my lady of 
the desert, I come.” 

“How?” said Whinney. 

“Nothing.” I answered shortly and went be¬ 
low. 

Another certainty, arrived at during my trans- 
Mediterranean trip, loomed large in my plans. 
Re-visiting the desert after an absence of ten 
years I decided that I should assume my title of 
Sheik of the Moplah Bedouins which had been con- 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


39 


ferred upon me in recognition of having saved a 
native caravan from certain death due to the sud¬ 
den failure of the wells at the Oasis of Sus. 

Since that memorable time the Sheik, as an in¬ 
stitution, has acquired a tremendous sentimental 
and romantic value which fell in admirably with 
my quest of the remarkable English-woman who 
had yanked me so forcibly from the spiritual dol¬ 
drums. 

Tunis, Algiers, Fez and Agadir, all the im¬ 
portant North African towns—now do a thriving 
business in Sheik-outfitting, the bazaars ringing 
with the cries of costumers, burnous-boys, veiled 
Circassian beauties with their trays of turbans, 
dealers in arms and accoutrement, saddle-sellers 
and camel merchants. But I needed none of this 
shoddy material designed entirely for the tourist 
trade. What I wanted was the real thing. 

Two days after my arrival in Algiers I stumbled 
on Ab-Domen Allah, the faithful dragoman who 
had dragged me through Turkey and Arabia in 
1902. It was sheer Traprock luck, for he was the 
very man I wanted, capable, resourceful and de¬ 
voted. 

Over a glass of coffee on the terrace of the Di 
Baccho I explained my needs. 


40 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“Si, si” he hissed, patting his huge bulk de¬ 
lightedly. “I understand. I will attend to every¬ 
thing. See, we had best do thus and so.” 

Dipping his fore-finger in the coffee he drew an 
excellent likeness of Africa on the tablecloth. 

“We will enter here at Rascora on the very 
western edge of the desert. You can go round by 
water: I will meet you there with the camels. 
Thus we will go through the desert the long way. 
You will miss nothing. You are looking for 
something, eh?” 

I hesitated, but he burst out laughing. 

“A woman! Aha, my friend. You have not 
changed since I met you in Skutari! You devil!” 

Drawing back from the table in order to give 
himself room to shake he trembled like a mountain 
of jelly until a glance at his wrist-watch told him 
it was the evening hour for worship. He could 
not kneel but turned his chair toward Mecca and 
performed the orthodox calisthenics in a sketchy 
but satisfactory manner. 

Personally I was more than willing to let him 
have his laugh in exchange for having secured his 
services. Matters of detail could now be dismissed. 
At dawn the next day I weighed anchor for 
Tangier and points west, slipping rapidly down 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


41 


the Moroccan coast with short stops at Mogador, 
Rio de Oro and, finally, Rascora. 

Rapid though the trip was it took the better 
part of a fortnight allowing Ab-Domen no more 
than time to assemble our caravan. During the 
interval I took up the re-study of the desert lan¬ 
guages, Berber, Arabic, Bedouin and the main Su¬ 
danese dialects all of which I had fairly well 
mastered before we rounded the gleaming cliffs 
of Cape Blanco. I also gave considerable time to 
exercising myself in the florid style of speech with¬ 
out which no Sheik is really a Sheik. During these 
periods of study I would stand near the capstan and 
apostrophize my lost lady in the most poetic terms. 

“O thou! beautiful as the dawn and rounded as 
the bursting lotus-bud whose voice is as the cooing 
of a dove calling gently to its mate, lo, from afar I 
come to thee.” 

These proceedings astonished the crew. In fact 
I overheard Captain Triplett say to Whinney, 
“The old man is cuckoo,” to which the flippant 
first-officer replied, “You gushed a geyser.” I 
had to reprimand them both severely. 

Another exercise to which I devoted consider¬ 
able time was the practising of that stern, aloof 
mien which is the proper Sheik-ish attitude. This 


42 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


was very hard for me for my nature is genial. 
However no one ever heard of anyone clapping 
one of these portentous Arabs on the shoulder with 
a “Hello, Sheik; how’s tricks.” That sort of 
thing would mean death according to modern 
literary standards and I endeavored to convey this 
idea to my companions whenever they were famil¬ 
iar which was always. I almost precipitated a row 
when I said one day to Whinney, “Peace, thou 
ill-begotten son of a base-born mule-driver” . . . 
He seized a belaying pin with the light of mayhem 
in his eyes and I had great difficulty in explaining 
the purely figurative meaning of my words. 

In private, however, I continued the practise of 
speeches redolent of the great eastern orators who 
are pastmasters of the art of saying it with flowers, 
while I also steeled my heart to a cruelty toward 
all woman-kind which is an absolute prerequisite 
of successful Sheik-ery. Often, in the privacy of 
my cabin, I would seize my rolled-up steamer rug 
by the throat and cry harshly “So, I have you at 
last, have I? Remember, woman, you are mine! 
... all mine.” 

As may be imagined these studies filled in the 
time admirably and made me mad with longing for 
the actual desert voyage to begin. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


43 


Two days after dropping anchor Ab-Domen ap¬ 
peared on the outskirts of Rascora winding his 
way down from the Atlean foot-hills, bells tin¬ 
kling, flutes playing and camels smelling. He had 
assembled a complete outfit equipped with every¬ 
thing for an indefinite stay in the desert. 

I had decided on camels as our motive power for 
I loathe such modern contraptions as motorboats 
in Venice and motor-trucks in the desert. I 
couldn’t quite fancy myself as a Sheik arriving 
on a truck and crying “Lo! it is I, the son of the 
Eagle.” Besides I would probably get my bur¬ 
nous caught in the fly-wheel which would be a pity 
as it was really magnificent, a true Moplah Sheik 
costume, pure white with a number of tricky gold 
ornaments. 

Ab-Domen had done a gorgeous job in select¬ 
ing my camels. During his shopping he had been 
accompanied by my friend Herman Swank, for 
many years my super-cargo. We stood together 
as the herd wound its way into the village under its 
own power and Swank gave me some interesting 
information on their fine points. 

Qualifications to be considered in buying a 
camel are water-and-weight capacity, hair-crop 
and stupidity. The first consideration is how 


44 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


many miles per gallon can the beast do. Curious¬ 
ly, just as with automobiles, dealers invariably lie 
about this point. 

Weight-capacity is tested by loading the camel 
until he can’t get up and then removing small 
amounts until he just can, thus giving the traffic 
all that it can possibly bear. 

The hair-crop of the camel is one of the staple 
harvests of the desert area and is of tremendous 
value for the local manufacture of ropes, shawls, 
blankets, etc., and for the export trade in camels- 
hair brushes, used the world over by water-color 
artists. Water colors are, of course, out of the 
question in the Sahara where there is very little 
color and almost no water. 

Stupidity, the last named attribute, is an es¬ 
sential in a good camel. Fortunately most of 
them possess it to an amazing degree. Without it 
no animal would think of entering the desert let 
alone carrying the crushing burdens which are im¬ 
posed upon them. Ab-Domen had combed the 
country for stupid camels, among which the 
bactrian booby-prize went to DeLong, my own 
mount. Whinney bestrode Rufus, a reddish 
beast while Swank called his Clotilde in memory 
of a young woman he had known in the Latin 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


45 


Quarter. They were all single humped Arabians 
which are superior to the Asiatic variety, just why 
I can t say. After having ridden them a week it 
seemed impossible that they could be superior to 
anything. 

We left Triplett at Rascora whence he was to 
take the Kawa round to Cairo. I allowed six 
months for our trans-African trek. Two days 
after his departure we faced the East in the con¬ 
ventional caravan formation, led by an ass, the em¬ 
blem of good-luck. Our number had been in¬ 
creased by approximately sixty nomads of my own 
tribe, the Moplahs, a number of minor-Sheiks and 
a rabble of desert folk, Walatu-s, Gogo-s and 
Humda-s. To these must be added the doolahs 
or black camel-boys who closed the file while Ab- 
Domen, on a powerful camel, held a roving com¬ 
mission, darting hither and yon, or to and fro as 
needed. 

Our first objective was the Oasis of Arag-Wan. 
For several days we passed through tiny desert 
villages, Uskeft, Shinghit, Tejigia and others. 
There was no trace of the Wimpoles, but in this 
I was not disappointed. It would have been hu¬ 
miliating to find her too quickly, to stumble upon 
my lady on the first day out, to say “Oh, there 


AB-DOMEN ALLAH 

Dr. Traprock’s faithful Dragoman who, as the author says, 
“literally dragged” him through the desert. 


46 



Ab-Domen Allah 




* 




■ 

d 











* * 









\ 














- . 




■ _ 























« 












' 


- 


















! ; ' 

\ 


■ • 

- 


V- 






















p • 







. 

* - 

*- 

*** 












* 










* 

# 






- 


































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


you are!” and to have the whole episode over. I 
felt sure that our meeting would be more dramatic. 

On the fourth day we faced the empty desert. 
Never had I felt more completely a Sheik. My 
friends Swank and Whinney had caught my en¬ 
thusiasm as well as my mode of dress and address. 

“Hail, El-Swanko!” I would say; “Son of the 
well-known morn and illustrious evening-star, 
may thy blessings be as the hairs on thy camel’s 
head and thy bed as soft as his padded hoof.” 

“Back at you, Dhubel-dhub, Sheik of the 
Moplah Chapter,” my friend would cry, being a 
bit unpracticed in the fine points of sheik-talk. 
But he came on rapidly and was soon able to con¬ 
verse fluently in the ornate hyperbole of the 
country. 

The desert and the ocean have been frequently 
compared but happenings of the next few days 
were to bring this comparison home in no uncer¬ 
tain terms. Swank and Whinney suffered acute¬ 
ly from their first experience on camel-back and 
even I felt somewhat uneasy until I became ac¬ 
customed to DeLong’s pitch and roll. The 
“ship-of-the-desert” is no idle poeticism. 

Beyond Tejigja we were completely out of 
sight of water. No trace of passing craft broke 


50 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


the horizon about us. Like an admiral at the 
head of his fleet I scanned the sky anxiously. 
Three days passed. On the fourth a violent head 
wind forced us to tack in order to keep the sand 
out of our eyes. 

The next morning I rose to face a titanic 
struggle between earth and sky. The desert was 
rising. After a three-mile advance I gave the 
order to heave-to. The camels were anchored fore- 
and-aft, to long tent-pegs. The sand became in¬ 
creasingly fluid. Low ripples running over its 
face rapidly rose to waves which dashed their 
stinging spray over us with the rasping hiss of a 
devil’s hot breath. In the lulls I could hear the 
wails of the doolahs and the bubbling roar of the 
camels. 

Ab-Domen fought with the resource and bravery 
of a great commander. We were now all crouch¬ 
ing low against the blast. 

Suddenly I saw Ab-Domen point excitedly 
toward the East. A gigantic tidal-wave of sand 
was bearing down upon us through the murk. 
Of what followed I can only give a dim impres¬ 
sion. I heard the parting of several anchor ropes 
and the screams of the anguished beasts as they 
and their riders were swept into oblivion. Then, 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


51 


as if to administer the coup-de-grace, two enor¬ 
mous sand-spouts loomed up from the south, hide¬ 
ous spinning wraiths, whirling dervishes of the 
desert, personifying all the diabolic malevolence 
of this ghastly land. One missed us, passing with¬ 
in a few yards of DeLong and myself; the other 
moved directly across the compact mass of doolahs 
who lay screaming in its path. I had a glimpse of 
a score of black bodies sucked upward into the 
swirling column, spinning helplessly in the vortex 
with arms and legs out-thrust, grasping or kick¬ 
ing at the empty air. Then all was dark. 


Five hours later I dug myself out of suffocation 
and sand. The storm had passed. Twelve 
doolahs and two camels were missing. The rest 
were badly disorganized. But the desert lay, 
calm and peaceful about us. We had weathered 
the storm and, to my infinite joy, there, in the 
distance, the white walls and bending palms of an 
oasis gleamed in the evening sunlight—the wells 
of Arag-Wan. We had won through! 







V 






















Chapter IV 
The Wandering Wimpoles 


53 

























Chapter IV 


Still no trace of the Wimpoles. I was up early 
and out betimes. We had pitched our tents and 
rested our caravan in the shadow of the palms of 
Arag-Wan. Here our water-skins, canteens, 
camels and other containers were filled to over¬ 
flowing. A trace of French thrift surprised me. 
The wells had been fenced off and equipped with 
a red Bowser-pump guarded by a half-cast Ber¬ 
ber in brown cloak and battered visor-cap bearing 
the legend “Colonies d’Afrique” There was 
free-air but not free-water. 

“Combien de gallons?” asked the old chap. 

“Fill ’em up,” I ordered, knowing that the next 
station was hundreds of miles to the eastward. 

During the filling process I wandered out into 
the desert. The air was cool and delicious. A soft 
breeze whispered through the palm-trees in the 
branches of which chattered a lavender tabit or 
doctor-bird. Beyond the edge of oasis the low- 
55 


AT THE OASIS OF ARAG-WAN 

Herman Swank, Traprock’s intrepid follower, superintending the 
important process of filling the camels. 


56 


! 



At the Oasis of Arag-Wan 












* 





* 



















4 




* , 

. 















m i 







■ 






. 
























. 

' 

\ 11 ; . 














- 

































' 

11 ■ 
















IM 1 fc 

■ 








. 

I 





SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


59 


growing palmettos, oleanders and gun-sandarachs 
dwindled to stunted prickly pears and leprous 
leaved squill-vines among which I noted the fresh 
tracks of several audad and a jerboa. 

Intensely interested as I am in the secrets of 
nature’s book I became completely absorbed in the 
perusal of this fascinating page, or perhaps I 
should say foot-note. Bending over the imprinted 
tracks in silent study I became aware of a soft 
tread on the sand back of me. I turned my head 
silently but though I made the motion with the 
greatest caution it was enough to stampede a 
flock of seven magnificent whiffle-hens, birds of 
the utmost rarity, a cross between the ostrich and 
the bustard. 

They were off at once, loping across the desert 
with that supremely easy and deceptive swing of 
their slightly bowed legs, traveling at a gait which 
breaks the heart of the swiftest horse, their snowy 
plumes gleaming in the sunshine. But what 
brought me up all standing was the fact that the 
leader of the flock sported in the center of his tail- 
feathers a gorgeous ostrich plume which very evi¬ 
dently did not belong there. For it was bright 
blue! 

On the instant I recognized it as the ornament 


60 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 

worn by Lady Wimpole at the Casino in Monte 
Carlo! 

A second later I was rushing pell-mell back to 
camp to rouse Ab-Domen and make preparations 
for pursuing the rapidly vanishing whiffle-hens. 

Fortunately my faithful dragoman had had the 
foresight to include in the caravan a number of 
fleet Arabian steeds for just this sort of sudden 
foray or side-excursion. I selected Whinney as 
my companion and we were soon mounted in the 
deep, Moroccan saddles, bits and bridles jingling 
with bells, burnouses flapping and long guns pro¬ 
jecting at dangerous angles. The animals were 
frantic to be off, rearing, snorting, glaring with 
blood-shot eyes and blowing foam over the grooms 
who clung on madly like hounds at a fox’s throat 
until I gave the word “Marasa !”—“Cast off!” 

Off we flew like arrows. It would have been 
more impressive had we both gone in the same di¬ 
rection. As it was the effect was somewhat scat¬ 
tered and it was ten minutes before Whinney and 
I re-convened two miles from the encampment 
and were able to lay a course in the supposed di¬ 
rection of the birds. Our brutes had now calmed 
down but were still mettlesome and we seemed to 
fly over the sandy floor, eagerly scanning the 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


61 


horizon. Fortune favored us. The flock had 
stopped to feed among some low-growing ground- 
aloes and we came on them suddenly in a fold of 
the plain. 

Reining up I motioned Whinney to move with 
caution. We must rouse but not frighten them 
if we hoped to keep within range. Cupping my 
hands I gave a close approximation of the cry of 
the African whimbrell, a small but savage bird 
which is the bane of the whiffle-hen whom 
it pesters by sudden, unexpected attacks. The 
flock moved on at once looking about and pay¬ 
ing no attention to us as long as we remained 
at a distance. 

Thus we proceeded for the better part of the 
morning. The sun’s heat was becoming danger¬ 
ous. According to all laws of desert travel we 
should have been safely sheltered in our tents but 
I kept on obstinately. My theory was this; whiffle- 
hens, owing to the value of their plumage, are 
often caught, corralled and domesticated as is the 
ostrich. That this was the case with the birds we 
were following was evident from the presence 
among them of Lady Wimpole’s blue feather. 
They might well have been part of her caravan, 
have broken bounds and launched out for them- 


62 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


selves. On then, ever on! Fortune favors the ob¬ 
stinate ! 

As if to corroborate my thought, things began 
to happen. The whiffle-hens suddenly stopped in 
their tracks and stood peering forward. By mov¬ 
ing to one side I noticed what their mass had con¬ 
cealed, namely a few palm trees and tents at no 
great distance, the occupants of which had ap¬ 
parently seen the birds approaching. To one 
side was a temporary corral, its gate invitingly 
open. 

Sensing the psychological moment I gave the 
word to Whinney and with a loud cry we sped 
forward. The whiffle-hens caught by this unex¬ 
pected onslaught dashed onward, instinctively 
rushing into their old quarters outside of which 
we drew rein, to be praised, congratulated and 
wondered at by the desert patriarch who had given 
up his precious creatures as lost. Bending low he 
ground his face in the earth, raising his head only 
to blow out small clouds of sand—for he was of 
that odd sect, the Ismilli or sand-blowers—mixed 
with a volley of laudatory expletives. 

It was unmistakably the Wimpoles’ caravan. 
Hampers, hold-alls, English-tents and impedi¬ 
menta were everywhere in evidence. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


63 


“Where are they, the Lords of your destiny?” 
I questioned. 

The old hen-shepherd blew out a final cloudlet 
of sand. 

“Yonder is their dwelling: the silken tent neath 
the third palm. They are but just now risen.” 

Dismounting and throwing my reins to the na¬ 
tive I strode off in the direction indicated. As I 
drew near the tent I paused. 

Voices were raised in altercation. Far be it from 
me to be eaves-dropper to a private family-quar¬ 
rel, which, alas, I feared was an all too frequent 
occurrence in the lives of this mismated pair. 
Ready to withdraw I hesitated when a particular¬ 
ly sharp interchange forced a decision. A burst 
of laughter was followed by a man’s voice crying 
hoarsely—“By God, I’ll cut your throat!” Then 
a shriek rang out. It was high time to interfere. 
A fight may be private but a murder is not. 
Drawing aside the curtain I leapt into the tent. 

“Hold!” I cried. “Stay thy hand: infidel son 
of a swineherd’s sister; or by the beard of the 
Prophet thou perish’st.” 

The speech was entirely impromptu and I 
thought it sounded well, but somehow it fell flat. 

Lord Wimpole was alone. He was shaving. 


64 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“I was speakin’ to that dam’ parrot,” he said 
brandishing his razor toward Selim who was 
twisting about and making a noise like sick auto¬ 
mobile-gears. “Who are you, may I ask?” 

How low the fellow was! . . . and how con¬ 
temptible he looked, his face half shaved, half 
lumpy with lather. One of life’s bitter jokes is 
that practically every man must shave. As I thus 
philosophized the curtains of an adjoining apart¬ 
ment opened and She appeared. 

Heavens! how beautiful she looked. She en 
dishabille , clutching about her golden body the 
folds of a dazzling silk kimono, purple shot with 
green. Her hair was down: being bobbed it was, 
of course, always down, and her blue eyes were 
filmy with sleep. 

“Doctor . . she began. 

I checked her with an imperious gesture in 
which was expressed the boundless freedom of the 
fiery Arab race. 

“El Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub ak Moplah,” I 
announced. 

Lord Wimpole was plainly impressed. Hastily 
finishing his left cheek he extended his hand. 

“ ’Oly mackerel ... a real Sheik. Put’er 
there. I’m a lord meself.” 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


65 


Ignoring his effusion I spoke solemnly. 

“Leagues have I ridden, I and my faithful fol¬ 
lower, tracing the flight of birds, yea, even of the 
swift-skimming whiffle-hens, which ever drew near¬ 
er to their home even as my falcon-heart drew near¬ 
er to its nest, the tent of the most beautiful.” 

I glanced at Lady Sarah who never batted an 
eye though one lovely lid drooped ever so slightly. 
Continuing I said, in part. 

“And now, the journey done, I am a-weary 
and would fain repose myself in the light of the 
gazelle’s eyes. My charger rests neath the nodding 
fig-tree and my soul is parched and a-thirst.” 

This was a craftily contrived bit. Wimpole 
gaped through most of it but got the final word. 

“Thirst” ... he cried. “Gad, I should say so. 
Me too. Jolly good idea.” 

A moment later, her ladyship having retired, 
Wimpole, Whinney and I raised tall beakers of 
superb Scotch to my heartfelt toast, “the loveliest 
lady in the world.” 

Would she hear me? I wondered. A husky 
voice from behind the curtain answered my hope: 

“Lads, pass one in to me.” 









\ 


Chapter V 

Love and Lions 


67 






























Chapter V 


The afternoon, it appeared, was to be given 
over to a lion hunt in spite of the objections of 
Effendi-Bazam, the Karawan bashi or leader of 
the Wimpole party which, by the way, was as ill- 
organized and amateur an outfit as I have ever 
seen. We were now not far from the southern 
edge of the Ahaggar Plateau which thrusts its 
spurs into the desert like the stony fingers of a 
giant hand clutching at the sands. The ravines 
between the fingers were an ideal lurking place for 
desert lions, mangy, ill-favored beasts but far more 
sporty than their South African brothers. 

Effendi-Bazam was an undersized ottoman, 
hardly higher than a foot-stool. He was thorough¬ 
ly desert-broken but as timorous as a hare. 

“Great danger!” he cried, pointing northward 
when the hunting expedition was proposed. 
“Great danger.” 

“Danger from what ... the lions?” I asked. 


A DESERT DIANA 

“The afternoon, it appeared, was to be given over to lion¬ 
hunting.” 


70 



A Desert Diana 







SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


73 


He shook his head and I saw a convulsive 
swallow traverse the length of his triplicate chins. 
Then he motioned me aside, out of ear-shot of the 
others. 

“Not lions,” he whispered, “but worse ... a 
madder, wilder beast. O, listen, I pray, important 
Sheik-el Dhub, listen and heed. We are in the 
land of Azad,—Azad the Terrible. In yonder de¬ 
files he lurks and who so ventures there-in is de¬ 
filed.” 

I should mention in passing that there was no 
suspicion of a pun in Effendi’s original statement 
which was delivered in the Astrachan dialect: the 
horrid thing is unavoidable in an honest transla¬ 
tion. 

“Azad!” he continued,—“you have heard of 
him? Murder, blood, rapine . . . they are but 
beads on his rosary. O, magnificent Moplah, I 
fear for our lives ... for our lady. Ail Air 

He lay grovelling at my feet. 

“Rise, Effendi,” I ordered. “Due caution will 
be exercised.” 

Without understanding my words he departed, 
comforted. 

Azad! small wonder that at the mention of his 
name my face had assumed its sternest, cruellest 


74 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


expression, for it is a name which is almost un¬ 
speakable in the mouth of any self-respecting 
desert denizen. In every story of the desert which 
I have studied there is one Sheik who is described 
as the cruellest man in the world. To put the 
matter arithmetically, these men added together 
equal one-half of Azad. That is how wicked he 
was. 

He was said to be the son of a Spanish murder¬ 
er who, having escaped from the bastilliano at 
Cadiz, lived for a time with a gypsy woman of un¬ 
known origin. Azad was the result. From his 
earliest years he was an outlaw and defy-er of au¬ 
thority. Swaggering, brawling, killing, making 
love, he roamed from one Mediterranean port to 
another, gathering about him a following of riff¬ 
raff and ne’er-do-wells. Then came his notorious 
abduction of Miss Sedley from the mission sta¬ 
tion at Fez. This outrage assumed international 
proportions. Our government, after a sharp in¬ 
terchange of notes with France, proposed a puni¬ 
tive expedition. Two months later President 
Felix Faure was assassinated. Then rumors be¬ 
gan to leak out that Miss Sedley did not wish to 
be rescued and the affair was dropped. 

From that time the name of Azad became a 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


75 


synonym for unbridled license. Many a time I 
have heard the fishermen along the Moroccan 
coast say, as the thunder rolled among the coast- 
ranges. “Aha; there is old Azad, laughing at the 
law!” 

If we were near Azad we were near violence, 
that was certain, but you may be sure I said noth¬ 
ing of this to the others since there was naught 
to be gained by alarming them. I had another 
and better plan. I must divert them from their 
proposed expedition into the hills. 

About four in the afternoon when the sun was 
beginning to lose its violence the horses were 
saddled and the gun-bearers gathered under the 
palm trees, Effendi meanwhile becoming more 
and more anxious. 

“Milady,” I said, addressing Lady Sarah who 
had just come out of her dressing tent, “have you 
ever hunted desert lions before?” 

“Only yesterday,” she replied, “but we’d no 
luck. Not so much as a whisker did we see.” 

“We didn’t go far enough,” put in Lord Wim- 
pole. “Effendi stuck about the edges of the hills.” 

“Curious ...” I mused, “that you saw no lions 
, . « for there are plenty of them there . . . and 


76 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“Wot are you drivin’ at?” blustered Wimpole. 
“Wouldn’t we of seen ’em if they’d been there?” 

This was just what I wanted. 

“Not necessarily,” then, as if the thought had 
just occurred to me. “By jove; this is an ideal 
place for netting lions!” 

Both Lord and Lady Wimpole were instantly 
intrigued. 

“What ho?” they cried simultaneously. 

“Here is the idea,” I explained. “Over there is 
typical lion country, nothing there but sand and 
lions. But you can’t see them; nature takes care 
of that, you know, protective coloration. Tawny, 
yellowish beasts—they’re invisible at ten feet. 
But they can be caught. How many camels have 
you?” 

“Twenty-two” supplied Effendi. 

“Good. Take all the nets that go over their 
loads and fasten them together. Quick.” 

“Do as the Sheik says,” said Lord Wimpole. 

An hour later we were ready, the camel nets in 
a huge ball being rolled easily over the desert. 
About three miles distant I had noted a rocky 
flume which narrowed at its lower end. It was 
ideal for my purpose. Spreading the nets below 
I ran a strong camels-hair rope through the outer 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


77 


edges making a gathering string which was then 
carried up and over the projecting rock. At my 
direction a score or more of doolahs began prod¬ 
ding the high hank of sand that rose between the 
rock-walls of the gorge. First in a slow trickle, 
then in a steady stream the sand slid down into the 
nets. Occasionally a large mass would fall in 
which I thought I detected a flurried motion but, 
from our distance, I could not be sure. When 
the sand had piled itself to a height of about twelve 
feet, the base of the symmetrical cone reach¬ 
ing to the edge of the nets I gave a word of 
command, “Now!” and the doolah -hoys began 
pulling hastily at the gathering rope. The edge 
of the nets rose neatly, closing in around the 
top of the cone. Phase one of my operation was 
complete. 

Next came the final and exciting step of freeing 
the nets of sand. This was accomplished by yaw¬ 
ing the gathering-rope violently from side to side 
until the net was sufficiently loosened to allow its 
being dragged across the desert floor. Twice, 
thrice the sturdy doolahs hurled their bulks on the 
rope. 

“She starts ... she moves!” shouted Whin- 
ney. 


78 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Once in motion, the sand spun rapidly through 
the meshes until it was reduced to a small mass in 
the center of which I could detect two vague, but 
furiously revolving forms . . . lions! 

“Spearmen, ready!” I commanded, for it does 
not do to be unprepared. 

Lord Wimpole, express-rifle in hand, was apo¬ 
plectic with excitement. 

“Do we shoot ’em?” he cried. 

“No . . . no!” I motioned him back. “They 
will kill each other.” 

Sure enough, after a few moments’ fearful claw¬ 
ing and growling the fierce struggle amid the 
strong meshes quieted down. Two precautionary 
shots into the net, and the battle was over. At our 
feet lay the mangled remains of two tawny lions, 
exactly matching the shade of the surrounding 
sand. 

“For milady’s boudoir.” I said quietly. “In 
my own country we do it with a sieve; it is much 
simpler.” 

“ ’Straordinary!” said Lady Wimpole giving 
me a meaning look from her brilliant eyes, and we 
made our way back toward the camp voting the 
affair a complete success. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


79 


We dined in state in the Wimpoles’ dining tent. 
It was a lucullan repast of European delicacies 
varied with African dishes superbly cooked by a 
French chef; hors d’oeuvres, a delicious thin soup, 
audad steak and Egyptian quail succeeded each 
other, each course being marked by its appropriate 
wine from sherry through the whites and reds to 
cognac. 

“Couldn’t bring any champagne”; apologized 
Lord Wimpole through a mouthful of quail, “tried 
to but it blew up. No ice in the dam’ desert?” 

Lady Sarah looked on coldly as her husband 
passed through the familiar phrases of garrulity, 
incoherence and speechlessness. She rose disdain¬ 
fully just as his lordship slipped heavily from his 
camp chair. “May I speak to your ladyship a mo¬ 
ment . . . alone.” I murmured. 

She nodded. 

“Effendi, remove his lordship.” 

I followed her out under the cool stars, whisper¬ 
ing to Whinney as I passed, “Get the horses 
ready, we must away.” 

At the edge of the oasis Lady Sarah paused and 
faced me. We were alone—at last! Overhead a 
million eyes looked down from the twinkling gal¬ 
lery of heaven; far to the west a gibbous moon 


80 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


shone palely; night enveloped us—in fact it 
was going on midnight. Clearing my throat I 
began. 

“O woman, strange and mysterious, lamp of my 
life, it is not for me to rend the veil of thy secrecy, 
but my soul is eager in its questioning and my heart 
cries for an answer. Tell me, if thou so will’st, why 
did’st thou fly from thy nest when thou had’st 
made tryst with me at the police-station ?” 

To my delight she caught the elevation of my 
style at once and replied unhesitatingly. 

“Listen, O desert-man, Sheik Adullah-el-Dhub, 
and let thy heart attend, for oft has my own voice 
upbraided me that I did thus walk out on thee. 
Know then that it was not my will but that of the 
Sheik Wimpole, my over-lord, that hurried me 
hither-ward.” 

Though I winced at the reference to her over- 
lord I could but admire her fluent mastery of the 
nomadic tongue. 

“He it was,” she continued, “who plucked me 
from thy side, fearing the long delays of the law. 
But thou gottest my message?” 

“Yea, Princess—” I answered, at which she 
smiled, pleased evidently, at the promotion,—“Yea, 
even so,—and thy signal plume likewise. ’Twas 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


81 


well contrived the matter of the wliiffle-hens. Trust 
thy woman’s wit.” 

“ ’Twas simple,” she answered. “They were in 
the keeping of Kashgi, the sand-blower, an ancient 
stupid. Under guise of petting the bell hen I af¬ 
fixed my feather. Something told me they would 
find you, O Great South-wind.” 

Her words moved me deeply. 

“Straight as the thrown lance or the sped arrow,” 
I cried, feeling that the moment for tender mastery 
had come, “so came thy harbinger to me, O woman 
of bronze and gold. Allah be praised, whose hand 
hath guided me since that first fair evening when 
at the ocean’s edge I marvelled at thy sky-line!” 

She looked down at me, for she was slightly tall¬ 
er than I—tenderly, her rugged contours softened 
and beautified in the silver light. It was like moon¬ 
light on a cliff. My heart pounded furiously—her 
presence, the silence of the desert . . . the cognac 
... I was fired by emotion. Drawing myself 
up to her full height I stretched out my arms. 

“O, Woman-” 

On the instant I paused, thunderstruck. Far 
away on the northern horizon a light gleamed for a 
moment and was gone. Was it fact or fancy that 
made me think I saw a vague shape in the shadows 








ALONE AT LAST 




“I was fired by emotion. Drawing myself up to her full height 
I stretched out my arms. 

‘O, woman 


82 





Alone at Last 






























, 









/ 









. • 




. 














































v ■ 

1 I 






t 












. 

'll 

* 








SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


85 


before me. Instantly the thought of Azad flashed 
through my mind and brought me to my senses. 

“Lady Sarah,” I said hurriedly—“I must defer 
what I was going to say until another time. 
I was forgetting what made me ask for this 
interview—the night—your beauty—but the point 
is this. You, we, all of us are in immi¬ 
nent danger. On the hills yonder lies the camp 
of Azad the Terrible!” 

I could see her pale in the moonlight. 

“Even now his spies are probably prowling 
about, watching your camp, counting your men, 
your camels, your—women.” 

“What would you suggest?” she asked tremu¬ 
lously. 

“Flight—” I replied boldly. 

Her glance expressed both surprise and disap¬ 
pointment. 

“Yes,” I repeated harshly, “flight! I have never 
been afraid to be cautious. Listen, Lady Sarah. 
Your caravan is ill-equipped. Effendi is strong on 
commissary but weak on munitions. There is but 
one thing to be done. We must consolidate. Azad 
will not attack tonight; he knows I am here. At 
dawn strike camp and remove to the Southward. 
In the meantime I will speed to my own men and 


86 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


summon them to your assistance. There is not a 
moment to be lost.” 

Hastily retracing our steps we reached the 
camp where, at the portal of the luxurious tent, I 
bent over Lady Sarah’s hand, lightly brushing her 
firm knuckles with my lips. 

“Farewell,” I breathed. “Remember, strike 
camp at dawn. Be of good heart—and do not for¬ 
get—the Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub.” 

“How could I?” she whispered, smiling strange¬ 
ly- 

As she lifted the tent curtain I had a glimpse of 
the elaborate interior, hung with silken draperies 
and furnished with many-hued cushions and a broad 
low divan over the edge of which, upside down, 
hung the brutish face of Sir Horace Wimpole. 

“Her over-lord!”- 

Ugh! A shudder of revulsion shook me. 

A moment later Whinney and I were rushing 
through the night like great white birds while in my 
heart echoed the words of an old Persian love 
song— 

“Farewell, farewell, my sweet gazelle, 

With ruby eyes-” 



Chapter VI 
A Desperate Predicament 


87 

























Chapter VI 

Whinney and I were facing a difficult task, a 
hard ride at night just when we should have been 
going to bed. This meant little to me for I have 
frequently gone two and three nights without sleep 
but it was torture to my companion who is that 
most pathetic of human beings, a creature of 
regular habits. Twice, as we plodded along, he 
lunged from his saddle and as I lifted him he kept 
murmuring “Must have my eight hours . . . must 
have my eight hours.” All efforts to keep him 
awake were in vain and I began to despair of ever 
reaching our destination until I hit on the idea of 
fastening my burnous between our horses forming 
a cradle into which my friend fell with a pleased 
smile and the drowsy comment “Make up lower 
seven!” 

On, on we sped at a smooth, steady pace. Now 
and again the horses would separate to avoid a 
thorny squill-bush and Whinney would be tossed 

89 


REGINALD WHINNEY 

“That most pathetic of human beings, a creature of regular 
habits.” 


90 



Reginald Whinney 












/ 


‘ 





















SARAH OF THE SAHARA 93 

lightly in his blanket; but he slept soundly through 
it all. 

I was glad to be alone, alone with my fears, my 
anxieties and my great love, for that Lady Sarah 
felt the force of my flaming passion I could not 
doubt. Had she not called me to her side? Had 
she not looked into my eyes that very evening with 
an expression which might have led me to the 
gates of Paradise, had I not been interrupted by 
Azad’s signal flash? 

Azad! The thought of him was a knife in my 
heart. “On, Thunderer, on.” I urged my willing 
horse, patting his wet neck and shoulder. Then 
moved by a sentimental desire for a confidant I 
leaned forward. The brute seemed to understand 
for he bent back an attentive ear. “It is for her!” 
I whispered. Thunderer whirled instantly and 
Whinney was thrown far into the night. 

“Not to her . . . for her, you idiot!” I ground 
out, savagely tugging at the reins and forcing my 
brace of beasts back toward our passenger. But 
though we were soon under way again the horses 
were now restive and difficult to manage. 

I had been steering a course by the stars, aiming 
at a particularly large, red one which looked 
familiar and which, Whinney agreed, had been 


I 




SARAH OF THE SAHARA 93 

lightly in his blanket; but he slept soundly through 
it all. 

I was glad to be alone, alone with my fears, my 
anxieties and my great love, for that Lady Sarah 
felt the force of my flaming passion I could not 
doubt. Had she not called me to her side? Had 
she not looked into my eyes that very evening with 
an expression which might have led me to the 
gates of Paradise, had I not been interrupted by 
Azad’s signal flash? 

Azad! The thought of him was a knife in my 
heart. “On, Thunderer, on.” I urged my willing 
horse, patting his wet neck and shoulder. Then 
moved by a sentimental desire for a confidant I 
leaned forward. The brute seemed to understand 
for he bent back an attentive ear. “It is for her!” 
I whispered. Thunderer whirled instantly and 
Whinney was thrown far into the night. 

“Not to her . . . for her, you idiot!” I ground 
out, savagely tugging at the reins and forcing my 
brace of beasts back toward our passenger. But 
though we were soon under way again the horses 
were now restive and difficult to manage. 

I had been steering a course by the stars, aiming 
at a particularly large, red one which looked 
familiar and which, Whinney agreed, had been 


94 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


directly over our camp. But there must have been 
something wrong with my calculations. Most 
Sheiks steer entirely by the heavenly bodies 
but I had hardly had time to get the hang of 
them. 

The sky was fading to a delicate beryl-green 
when I decided to let the horses have their own 
way. As I loosed my rein they turned gracefully 
at a right angle and broke into an encouraging gal¬ 
lop. Soon the heavens were flooded with the in¬ 
vading light, the stars paled and the sun’s rays shot 
across the desert. With the sun just peering over 
the horizon every stunted shrub cast a long blue 
shadow, every shallow depression became a pool of 
liquid purple into which Thunderer and his fellow 
rushed, loose-reined. 

We must have ridden a dozen miles out of our 
way following the red star line and I was begin¬ 
ning to wonder if the intelligence of the Arab 
horses was all that it was said to be, when I de¬ 
tected a distant something on the horizon. It was 
still too far off for identification but I scanned it 
eagerly. A quarter hour passed and I could clearly 
make out an oasis and beneath it tents—our tents! 

“Time to get up,” I yelled, bringing the two 
horses close together, thus squeezing Whinney’s 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


95 


head gently between their bellies, causing him to 
open his eyes in astonishment. 

“There we are,” I shouted. “Get up, man; climb 
into your saddle.” 

He clumsily obeyed my injunction and having 
freed my burnous, I gave Thunderer his head and 
dashed forward, glad to be temporarily rid of my 
sleepy companion. As I flashed by I had a glimpse 
of Whinney checking his horse and stopping to 
wipe the sleep from his eyes. Little did I realize 
it at the time but my leaving him at that moment 
was to be one of the determining events of my life, 
an event without which that life would inevitably 
have been lost and this story, horrible to think of!— 
never written. 

Thunderer and I covered the last quarter mile 
in record time, jumped a series of tent-ropes and 
recumbent camels and bounded into the center of a 
somnolent compound. 

“To arms! To arms!” I shouted, brandishing 
my own. “Your queen is in danger.” Uncon¬ 
sciously I quoted the beautiful lines from the Black 
Crook, probably the most exquisite lyric drama in 
the English language. At my words startled Arabs 
popped from the encircling tents or raised them¬ 
selves from the masses of baggage upon which they 


96 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


had been sleeping. In a moment I was closely 
hemmed in by a circle of swart, savage faces. 
“Heavens,” I thought, “how could Ab-Domen have 
recruited such tough travelling companions?” 

Then, raising my hands, I addressed them, speak¬ 
ing boldly, fiercely, talking down to them as it were 
in order to let them know their place. 

“Hearken, O, Scum of the Sahara, and hear the 
words of your master, Abdullah-el-Dhub. . . 

A roar of laughter and a mighty cry of “Yaa 
... a ... ah” greeted my ears and with a sicken¬ 
ing sense of defeat I realized that I was surrounded 
by enemies. I might have known! The men were 
of a different type from any of my camp-followers. 
My Arabs were swart but these were swarter. I 
instinctively looked over their heads to warn Whin- 
ney of my predicament. 

“Back,” I shouted. “Back,—I am captured.” 

But I might have saved my breath. The plucky 
fellow was already a speck on the horizon having 
fled the instant he saw and heard what was trans¬ 
piring. There was only one desperate chance left; 
to jump the encircling crowd. Spurring Thunder¬ 
er with both heels, I gave him a loose rein. Gather¬ 
ing himself together he made a glorious leap from 
a standing position high over the head of the tallest 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


97 


Arab. For a second I thought I had broken 
through when, straight and sure, rose a native spear 
hurled by a gigantic Bassikunu. It struck my 
courageous beast directly below me and with a 
scream of anguish he fell on the stout shaft, the 
point being forced upward through bone, sinew, 
entrails, saddle-blanket and saddle. Only the 
greatest nimbleness on my part saved me from a 
fatal puncture. 

Like a soaring bird I leaped from the saddle, my 
burnous floating in billows about me as I planed 
earthward there to be seized by a hundred hands, 
disarmed, my hands trussed behind me, my feet 
bound in morocco leather and my head covered with 
a filthy gunny-sack. 

About me I heard coarse laughter and an oc¬ 
casional remark in the crude Bassikunu dialect. 

“Hah!” said one, kicking me contemptuously, 
“this will be a pleasant surprise for Azad.” 

So? I was in his hands. O, the bitterness of my 
reflection that Azad, the cruellest of men, held me 
thus in his power, and that far from having cap¬ 
tured me I, Traprock, had deliberately ridden into 
his arms. The humiliation, the ignominy of it. By 
a desperate movement I managed to struggle to my 
feet. 


98 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Bound as I was, with my head covered I must 
have presented the appearance of a contestant in 
some grotesque gymkhana event. After a few con¬ 
vulsive leaps I fell heavily, landing in the live 
embers of the cook’s fire over which hung a kettle 
of some nauseous brew which I promptly upset in 
my spasmodic efforts to escape the burning brands; 
all this to the accompaniment of uproarious laugh¬ 
ter. 

Rolling over in one final wriggle I felt some¬ 
thing hard under my hands back of me. My grasp 
tightened on it by instinct as I lost consciousness 
from faintness and suffocation. I knew vaguely 
that I was being lifted by two men after which I 
was thrown down heavily; then blackness closed 
about me. Matters were not looking their best. 


My first impressions of Azad were gained from 
his voice. He had returned to his camp during my 
fainting spell and stood not far from the spot where 
I had been thrown. 

“Well, did you get the women?” asked one of his 
followers. 

“No,” he said. “By her side was a mighty Sheik 
—a Moplah—so my spy tells me, a man of great 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


99 


strength and cunning. I resolved to bide my time. 
Tonight she will be alone with her half-witted hus¬ 
band and her idiot of a Karawan-bashi and— 

“You say a Moplah chief was with her?” ques¬ 
tioned an unfortunate follower who had not learned 
the penalty of speaking out of turn in a conversa¬ 
tion with Azad; “why this very day . . .” 

He got no further. Azad gave an almost inaud¬ 
ible command at which the interrupting voice sud¬ 
denly thinned to a wheeze as if the wind-pipe had 
been closed by violent pressure. A convulsive 
gurgling sob was followed by a low moan and I 
felt the impact of a body falling heavily on the sand 
near me. 

Though I could see nothing I must confess that 
Azad’s voice was the most unpleasant I have ever 
heard. Far from being harsh and dominating it 
was low, cool, almost tired. It faded away at the 
end of sentences as if the possessor had withdrawn 
himself from human contact. I sensed the presence 
of one to whom human life, even his own—was 
nothing. If a snake had a voice I feel sure it would 
be the voice of Azad. 

“What was the fellow saying?” asked those icy 
tones. 

“That we have this day captured a Moplah chief, 


AZAD THE TERRIBLE 


“If a snake had a voice I feel sure it would be the voice of 
Azad.” 



Azad the Terrible 


WKmKmmBBBmm 
















* 


































' 

: ■ 













' 





















SARAH OF THE SAHARA 103 


O Sire,” was the humble reply, “even now he lies 
nearby in the shelter of thy tent where he awaits 
thy pleasure.” 

“Produce,” said Azad. 

I was lifted and borne into a brighter light. An 
instant later the sack was pulled from my head. It 
was a critical moment; now, if ever, was the time 
for dissimulation. I must pretend that my fainting 
fit still endured; upon that depended my life. 
Even a man as unspeakably cruel as Azad finds 
no satisfaction in torturing an unconscious enemy. 
There is no pleasure in it. 

I was not mistaken. After a brief inspecting 
during which I scarcely breathed I was again flung 
into the shadows. 

“Let him wait,” said the voice of Azad,—“when 
he comes to we will . . .” 

I can not repeat his proposed line of action but 
the mere mention of it nearly produced a real 
swoon. 

For an hour I lay motionless, thinking, thinking, 
the thought drumming in my brain,—“How should 
I get out of this mess?” About me the sounds of 
the camp gradually quieted. The heat grew in¬ 
tense and I knew that it was the middle of the day, 
the time of the siesta. And then again I became 


104 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


conscious of the object which I had clutched when 
I was first thrown on the ground. Turning it over 
in my bound hands I realized that it was a knife, 
evidently one of the cook’s utensils which I had 
knocked over. To cut the bonds back of me was 
difficult but I finally managed it by lying on the 
edge of the knife. One by one I felt the thongs 
part though I injured myself severely in the pro¬ 
cess for as each strand of leather gave way the blade 
sank in my flesh and the sand was reddened about 
me. 

Faint but desperate I realized that I must act 
quickly in the brief interval offered to me. Freeing 
my feet I cautiously lifted my burlap veil and 
peered about. I lay near the entrance of Azad’s 
tent in the recesses of which I could see his body 
sunk in deep slumber, guarded by a drowsy slave. 
Just beyond the outer curtain lay the form of a 
humble Bassikunu, the unfortunate creature who 
had interrupted his lord and master. The hem of 
his dirty brown mantle almost touched that of my 
burnous. 

An open attempt to escape now meant certain 
death. For one mad moment I thought of spring¬ 
ing to my feet, cleaver in hand, and dispatching the 
filthy Azad with one clean blow. But what was to 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 105 


be gained. The odds were too great. Slowly a 
plan formed in my mind. 

With the silence of a snake I edged slightly 
nearer the slain Bassikunu until our garments over¬ 
lapped. It was the work of an hour which seemed 
like twelve for me to move his corpse out of his 
coarse garment and into the voluminous folds of 
my cloak. Moving a fraction of an inch at a time, 
the sweat of excitement pouring from my body, I 
burrowed and pushed and pulled and hauled until 
we had at last changed places, the humble camel- 
driver lying inside in my Moplah cloak while I 
sprawled beyond the tent wall in his blood stained 
and ignoble raiment. A few feet from me on the 
sand lay his tongue, plucked out by the roots, a 
pretty sample of Azad’s work. 

Scarcely had I effected this perilous change of 
costume when the camp was suddenly in an uproar. 
Into the midst of the compound bounded an excited 
Arab on a foam flecked horse. Azad leaped to 
alertness with amazing speed. 

“Speak, Mulai Hadji,” he commanded. 

“Their caravan approaches!” said the rider ex¬ 
citedly. For a second I cherished the thought that 
my own men were on the way to my rescue but 
this hope died as the speaker continued, “even now 


106 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


they are moving southward,—their camels rich with 
plunder, their men few and ill-armed.” 

“What of the Moplah caravan?” asked Azad 
who was evidently a man of caution rather than 
bravery. I hung on the answer in a fever of excite¬ 
ment for I knew it referred to my own expedition. 
The information was delivered with a scornful 
laugh. 

“The fools! They continue Eastward in search 
of their lost master. A day’s journey away they 
must be nearing the Wells of Tabala. The fruit is 
ripe, O Mighty Azad; the golden pomegranate is 
ready for your plucking.” 

The golden pomegranate! That could be none 
other than Sarah, my lovely bird, flying southward 
at my behest, straight into the clutches of this vul¬ 
ture, this ... it was too much. Leaping to my 
feet I ran toward the camel-compound. Happily, 
in my humble costume, I was unnoticed; I was 
simply a Bassikunu, one more or less. Seizing and 
mounting the first available camel I joined the mob 
which was surging northward. My one hope was 
to detach myself from this filthy band, overtake my 
own men and bring them back to the rescue. Cruel 
as it seemed to desert Lady Sarah at this juncture 
therein lay the only practical plan. But on a slow 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 107 


moving camel my task was hopeless. Ahead of me 
rode one of the sub-sheiks on a magnificent sorrel 
mare. What must be done must be done quickly. 
For an instant he checked his horse to avoid a tent- 
rope and in that instant I acted, urging my clumsy 
brute forward and riding off the Arab, pushing him 
with all my force against the obstruction until horse 
and rider fell sprawling. Dropping from my camel 
I was at his side in a second, pretending to assist 
him, in doing which I twisted his head completely 
around so that though his breast lay upward his 
face was buried in the sand. He fainted without a 
sound and a moment later, wrapped in his great 
cloak, I sprang into the empty saddle and, cautious¬ 
ly at first and finally at full speed, rushed off to¬ 
ward the east. 

The whole operation took no more than three 
seconds and could never have been accomplished 
other than by taking advantage of the peculiar con¬ 
ditions of confusion, etc., and by acting upon what 
has always been my greatest safeguard—instinct. 
















































-• 














































* 



































































































































Chapter VII 

The Escape 


109 






Chapter VII 


Free! Free once more. With a glorious feeling 
of elation I bounded off across the desert. Glanc¬ 
ing over my shoulder I saw that I had accomplished 
my get-away without attracting attention. Azad’s 
men were streaming steadily northward, a low 
cloud of dust marking their progress. I watched 
intently for any sign of pursuit but none came. 
From the unfortunate tribesman who had ridden 
my mount I feared no further trouble. The 
strength of my hands is a constant surprise to me 
and when I twisted the fellow’s head I had heard 
something crack with the ominous, final snap of a 
too-tightly wound toy. Unless I was very much 
mistaken the creature was permanently out of or¬ 
der. 

My hours of unconsciousness and captivity must 
have been longer than I realized for I noted that 
the day was far spent. This was a source of com¬ 
fort to me for hope sprang in my breast that the 
111 



112 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


sun would disappear before the treacherous scoun¬ 
drel I had evaded could come up with the Wimpole 
caravan. Unconsciously I encouraged the orb of 
day in his descent, urging him with prayers and 
curses to sink as rapidly as possible. Sheltered by 
night the cortege of my lady might yet pass a few 
hours in safety, hours fraught with fiendish anxiety 
for me. 

My plans for the future hung on a gossamer 
thread of chance, that of locating the Wells of 
Tabala to which, according to Azad’s informant, 
my faithful Moplahs had repaired. My only indi¬ 
cation was the vague one of direction. The wells 
lay to the eastward and eastward the star of Trap- 
rock took its way, blindly, desperately. Pray 
Heaven my men would go slowly and cautiously 
as they might well do considering my absence. 

After an hour’s hard riding when all traces of 
the enemy had faded into nothingness I paused and 
from an inner pocket drew out my map of the 
Sahara. As I feared it was too small in scale to 
be of definite advantage. Imaginary lines such as 
the Tropic of Cancer, the 20th Parallel and numer¬ 
ous meridians were shown with perfect distinctness. 
These would have served admirably had I been 
going to an imaginary place but the Wells of 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 113 


Tabala were of poignantly definite import and of 
them there was no trace. With a sigh of resigna¬ 
tion I thrust the document back in its case and took 
up the reins. 

These first leagues of my journey were by no 
means as uneventful as they sound. The reader 
must remember that my horse and I were utter 
strangers to each other. This the mare resented 
with all the fire of the most pure-blooded Arabian 
steed than which no animal is more difficult when 
aroused. With true feminine deceptiveness she 
concealed her feeling for a considerable period 
during which we gathered tremendous speed. Then 
suddenly, after a great leap in air, she landed 
stiff-legged, stock-still in a cloud of sand. Fortun¬ 
ately I had taken care to twist the Bassikunu cloak 
firmly about the pommel of the saddle or all had 
been lost. As it was I flew straight on over the 
animal’s head, fetching up with a snap and swing¬ 
ing downward violently at her feet. She imme¬ 
diately reared, endeavoring to kill me with her 
sharp hoofs. I now hung like a human apron under 
her foaming muzzle, her eyes luckily being blinded 
by the heavy folds. In a trice I threw my arms 
about the thrashing knees, and, quickly slipping my 
grip down to the fetlocks, crossed her fore-legs, 


114 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


throwing my full strength against her shoulder as 
she fell. With a whimper of defeat the gallant 
beast rolled over on her side while I sat comfortably 
on her head and regained my breath, thanking my 
stars for the years of experience on our western 
plains which now stood me in such good stead. 

Then, unwrapping the burnous, I looked long 
and steadily into the bloodshot eyes of the animal 
below me. Gradually the wild gaze softened until 
with a sigh of resignation the soft lids dropped and 
the tense neck relaxed. As plainly as a horse could 
the mare said “I surrender; you are my master.” 

I instantly rose, taking the animal at her word 
and she stood peacefully still while I tightened the 
girths. From then on there was no more trouble 
from that quarter. 

If we had travelled fast before we now fairly 
flew. The sorrel swung steadily on as if to make 
amends for her past captiousness. By this time the 
sun was below the horizon and purple shadows vast 
and threatening rose from the wastes about me, 
vague towers and impalpable wraiths of darkness 
that loomed and fled. The low voice of the night 
wind began its sobbing. Often there would come 
to my ear the sound of a broken, inarticulate sen¬ 
tence as if some inhuman tongue had babbled a 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 115 

mysterious language: again the gray shape of a 
jackal glided swiftly along the edge of my vision 
or a desert rat scuttled across my path. As the 
darkness deepened it became peopled with all man¬ 
ner of visionary terrors and I could readily under¬ 
stand and accept the myriad djinns, evil spirits and 
ghosts of the misty East. 

An hour later, as my heart sank lower, the sorrel 
suddenly checked her stride, faltered and came to 
a full stop. “Poor brute,” I thought, “you are 
spent. It is the beginning of the end.” But as if 
to contradict me she thrust out her nose and 
neighed shrilly, following this by a cautious ad¬ 
vance. Plainly she had detected something of which 
I was not aware. Sure enough, a hundred yards 
farther on I caught the sound of low moaning, piti¬ 
ful but inexpressibly human and comforting in that 
dark wilderness. We made our way quickly in the 
direction of the sound and were soon rewarded by 
seeing a vague black form against the desert gray¬ 
ness. Hastily dismounting I bent over the object. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

“Pity . . . pity . .” begged a weak voice. 

Bending lower 1 saw that the speaker was a 
woman, young and beautiful, her pale features 
haggard to the point of exhaustion. When I had 


ZALOOFA 

“She was a Circassian, lured from the convent-school of snake- 
charmers at Timbuctoo.” 


116 














v 

' / 










. 









. 






















( 
















- 





















■ 


























■ 






’ 














. 





















k 

















'• | ' l i 















SARAH OF THE SAHARA 119 


given her a reviving draught from my emergency 
flask and assured her of my friendly attitude she 
outlined her pitiful story. It was another sample 
of Azad’s dastardly work. She was a Circassian, 
lured from the Convent-school of snake-charmers 
at Timbuctoo. For a month she had been the 
sheik’s favorite, then cast aside, poisoned as he 
thought and left to bleach on the sands. But her 
constant innoculation with the venom of her pets 
had made her practically immune to the deadly 
toxin and for three days she had lain helpless 
’neath the furious sun, struggling to reach Tabala. 

“Tabala!” At the word I sprang up. “Whi¬ 
ther?” I cried. “Tell me quickly. I go but to pro¬ 
cure aid.” 

“ ’Tis not far,” she murmured. “An hour’s ride, 
perhaps, under yon constellation of El Whizbang.” 
And with the words she lapsed into unconscious¬ 
ness. Covering her gently with my cloak I leaped 
into the saddle. Bright above me glistened the 
starry diadem of El Whizbang and once more the 
sorrel and I thundered on through the night, our 
hearts alight with courage and hope. 

The desert woman’s direction was straight and 
sure. With startling suddenness a group of tall 
palms sprang into being. The neighing of my 


120 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


excited mare roused muffled cries, movement, bustle 
and confusion as vague tents disgorged their 
startled inmates. “Swank! Whinney, Ab-Do- 
men!” I shouted. 

Answering shouts of “Traprock” pierced the 
night. 

There was no time lost in parley. A brief pause 
for rest, a change of costume, a fresh mount and 
with twenty picked men armed to the teeth I turned 
back over a road I was not likely to forget. 

“Westward-ho!” I shouted, heading the gallant 
troop, and we thundered off to the rescue of all that 
I held most dear. 


Chapter VIII 
Sheik to Sheik 


121 








Chapter VIII 


In the short interval at our camp I had given 
Ab-Domen explicit orders as to just what to do. 
Twenty of the best tribesmen and all the available 
horses came with me. The men were mostly Mo- 
plahs with a few Kadas. They had long roamed 
the desert and having had much experience with 
tourists, were as rapacious and blood-thirsty a lot 
as one could wish. In addition I had Swank and 
Whinney, trusted and true, with the exact amount 
of intelligence necessary to handle the turbulent 
natives and no more. 

Ab-Domen stayed with the caravan. His in¬ 
structions were to retrace his steps with the outfit 
which was, of course, slow moving. He was to 
make one day’s journey after which he was to pitch 
camp and be prepared to welcome us back or dig 
in and resist to the death should Allah so will. My 
parting with the ponderous dragoman had been 
unusually affecting and it was with a stern, set 
countenance that I headed my impetuous band. 


124 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


For some time we rode in silence. The vault of 
heaven was still black at the zenith but at its east¬ 
ern edge glowed a widening band of silver that 
flickered and ran fitfully about the horizon as the 
flame runs around the wick of an oil stove. I never 
light my four-cylinder blue-flame without thinking 
of that momentous hour. Back of us the star, El 
Whizbang, sank to its usual matinal extinction, a 
faithful and exemplary planet, having performed 
its good deed for the night. We soon reached the 
crouching form of the Circassian woman with 
whom I left supplies, a loaf of bread, a goatskin of 
camels-milk and several of the latest magazines 
and whose location I marked for Ab-Domen’s 
guidance with a small red flag mounted on a spear. 
Thus we left her, looking like the eighteenth green 
of a desert golf course. 

In the growing light the trained eyes of my 
Moplahs easily followed the vague tracks of my 
previous ride. No wind had risen to disturb the 
shifting sands and though invisible to me their 
practised vision easily picked up the trail. They 
were much puzzled when we reached the site of my 
struggle with the sorrel where the deep hoof marks 
and trampled sand were plain to all. “You fell?” 
asked Quidj a, a cadaverous Kada. I laughed at 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 125 


the idea and shortly narrated the incident to their 
great delight, and ejaculations of “Bishmillah!” 
“Biskra!” and “Wahully!” 

Day now streamed lucidly over the undulating 
plain but though the tension of the previous hours 
was somewhat relaxed by action the increasing light 
brought to me an increase of anxiety. By now 
Azad’s camp would be astir. At this very moment 
the attack might be beginning if—alas! it had not 
already ended. This despairful thought prompted 
an attempt on my part to shorten the distance be¬ 
tween us. 

Between our present position and the original 
site of Azad’s camp lay an hour’s hard riding. 
From that point he had gone north while my course 
had been east. We had been describing two sides 
of a right angle. Obviously the intelligent thing to 
do was to close the triangle and take the shortest 
possible route along its hypotenuse. “Halt!” I or¬ 
dered. 

Hastily dismounting I drew an accurate dia¬ 
gram on the desert, which is ideally adapted for 
geometric study. All my life long I have clung to 
the knowledge that the square of the hypotenuse 
is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two 
sides. It stood me in good stead now. Quickly 


THE RESCUE 

“Superb! you are like a swift-running tide-race foaming over a 
hidden reef.” 


\ 


126 


ms 



The Rescue 




-** 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 129 


figuring the approximate distance which Azad and 
I must have travelled I leaped into the saddle with 
a cry of “Q.E.D.” to the mystification of my fol¬ 
lowers. From now on I was leader indeed. Ac¬ 
cording to my figures and time allowance the dis¬ 
tance to be travelled should be about nineteen miles 
which, with our superb animals, we could expect 
to travel in a little more than an hour. “Pray 
Heaven Euclid was right,” I murmured. 

The sun had cleared the horizon and struck 
brightly on our flowing cloaks. 

“You are a wonderful sight!” cried Swank, who 
had ridden off at a distance to take a photograph. 
“Superb! You are like a swift-running tide-race 
foaming over a hidden reef!” 

But I was oblivious to his poetic similes for, far 
off but dead ahead, I seemed to see an answering 
gleam of white and a faint dusty blur on the hori¬ 
zon. My heart stood still as my horse bounded for¬ 
ward more swiftly than ever. 

“On!” I shouted hoarsely. The others caught 
the infection of my excitement and we thundered 
onward. 

Yes! . . . it was Azad and his assassins! 

After an interminable half-hour we could see 
them plainly. The attack was on in all its fury. Very 


130 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


evidently Azad’s men had seen our approach, even 
as we had detected them, and had thrown them¬ 
selves on their quarry with the idea of having that 
part of the job done with before we could come 
up. But they had reckoned without the intelligence 
and courage of Lady Wimpole and the brute ob¬ 
stinacy of her husband. Wimpole, it appeared 
later, the instant he suspected the hostile intentions 
of Azad’s party, had formed his group into a Brit¬ 
ish square which he considered absolutely unbreak¬ 
able. 

We could see the huddled formation in the cen¬ 
ter with the encircling cordon of Bassikunus gal¬ 
loping about it. The sight of a merry-go-round in¬ 
variably brings back that tragic picture. Soon we 
heard the fierce cries of “Blida! Laghouat blida!” 
a Bassikunu form of unprintable torture which 
clearly accounted for the desperate resistance of 
Effendi and his men. Poor Effendi! I had feared 
he would give up at the first shot, but I did him 
an injustice. 

Now we were only a half-mile away but O, what 
dire things can happen in a half-mile. How I 
cursed the desert for its magnificent distances as I 
urged my horse forward. An occasional shot, a 
scream, an imprecation now mingled with the rising 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 131 


dust. At intervals twos and threes of the attacking 
party broke from the circle, darted forward and 
plucked some screeching fragment from the human 
wall. A camel dashed by me, bellowing piteously, 
the upper third of his hump cut cleanly off by some 
terrific sabre-swing which gave him the singular 
look of a table topped mountain. Brick by brick, 
stone by stone, life by life, the living parapet was 
being torn away. 

Now in the center I could see the little group of 
defenders, smoking revolvers in hand, Effendi- 
Bazam crouching low, praying and firing simul¬ 
taneously, Lord Wimpole, white as paper. Lady 
Sarah—my Sarah! redder than ever; a flaming 
beacon of courage, her bottle-green veil flying be¬ 
hind her and her eyes snapping behind her dark- 
blue glasses. Horrors! The square had crumbled! 
—the wall was down. 

With a loud cry of “Blida!” the desert-scum rose 
like a tidal wave overcoming the gallant group in 
a final heart-rending crash. A cloud of dust, 
pierced by wails of agony, obscured the ghastly de¬ 
tails of the picture. 

At times like this one does not think clearly; one 
acts. It was so in this instance. Without a word 
being spoken Swank and Whinney ranged them- 


132 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


selves on either side of me, my Moplahs forming a 
dense triangle at our backs. The enemy had in¬ 
stantly whirled about presenting everywhere a 
front bristling with guns, lances and gleaming 
simlas —the long, curved desert-swords. With in¬ 
creasing speed we hurled ourselves at the mass. 
Representing as I did what efficiency experts call 
the “point of contact” my position was one of ex¬ 
treme danger. 

Let me but dispose of the first man! He was a 
gigantic fellow with a gun approximately twelve 
feet long pointed directly at me. As he pressed his 
finger to the trigger my automatic barked and he 
crumpled up with a blue-edged hole in his forehead. 
The next instant our crushing wedge split Azad’s 
warriors into fragments. In that first moment of 
terrific impact Swank and Whinney stood by me 
nobly. Only men trained in the rush-hour tactics 
of civilized subways could have come through alive. 

With the first penetration accomplished it was a 
case of hand to hand fighting. Everywhere were 
struggling knots of humanity, swaying, plunging, 
stabbing slicing . . . it was hell let loose. A single 
thought in mind, I searched frantically for Lady 
Sarah. She was nowhere to be seen. Weaving my 
way between sprawling groups I fought toward the 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 133 


edge of the battle. Then I saw the devilish Azad’s 
scheme, for at a distance of a hundred yards were 
two horsemen, a muffled figure between them, gal¬ 
loping furiously to the southward. Crafty villain! 
under cover of the fighting his idea was to 
escape. 

Free of all obstacles I sped after them, rapidly 
gaining on their encumbered progress. It was two 
to one but what cared I. Seeing themselves over¬ 
taken they reined up while Azad’s bodyguard took 
deliberate aim through the sights of his long gun. 
I could almost feel its cold muzzle on my brow. 
Rut they had reckoned without the power of the 
woman they carried. With a convulsive spring she 
threw herself about the marksman and his bullet 
whistled over my head; a second later he fell 
pierced by the last ball from my automatic which 
I flung into the sand. In a flash I was alongside. 

“Azad,” I shrieked—“your hour has come!” 

His usually calm face was twisted with evil pas¬ 
sion, not unmixed with terror. Without the help 
of his henchmen the weight of the English woman 
had been too much for him and I saw her huddled 
body slip from his grasp and fall heavily to the 
sands. He pulled savagely at his beast’s mouth 
with the evident intention of backing and trampling 


SHEIK TO SHEIK 
“Azad,” I shrieked,—“your hour has come 



Sheik to Sheik 
























. 










* 











































































■ 
























| ) ' ‘ 






















* 


' 





/ 















' 



















f 

l l 














































' 




































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 137 


her to death. But at that second I resorted to an 
old Moplah trick which is the pride of our tribe. 

At a distance of ten feet I pointed the muzzle 
of my gun into the sand and using it as a vaulting 
pole described an arc in the air. Even so I should 
have been severely if not fatally wounded for the 
low-lived creature was alertly awaiting my descent 
to meet me with an inescapable blow of his razor 
edged simla ... I say “inescapable” for who can 
dodge in the air? But wait ... At the very 
second when by all the laws of gravitation I should 
fall against the sweeping blade, at the very in¬ 
stant when the wiry desert pirate delivered what 
he meant should be my death blow ... I pressed 
the trigger of my gun and fired it into the sand. 
The recoil of these Arab weapons is enormous. 
For an appreciable time my flight was not only ar¬ 
rested but reversed. 

Bird-like I leaped lightly clear of the whirring 
blade only to fall with a crash on the baffled no¬ 
mad’s head, enveloping him in my burnous under 
the folds of which I dragged him to the ground. 

It was now a Sheik to Sheik contest; in-fighting 
of the most inward character. 

Fighting in a burnous is very much like fight¬ 
ing under the bed clothes, a pastime in which I had 


138 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


often indulged during my school-boy days. More¬ 
over I was master of numerous grips and holds 
which are not in the Arab vocabulary. But Azad 
was at grips with death and knew it; in addition I 
felt sure that he still had his pistol which, if he could 
but press it against my side, would be unfortunate. 

His wiry strength surprised me. He constantly 
slipped from my grasp. It was like fighting a 
basket of eels in a clothes-hamper. Hither and 
yon we thrashed. Once I got a grip on his Adam’s 
apple and thought to have wrenched it from his 
throat but his teeth closed on my ear lobe and I 
loosened my hold. Now I heard the thud of horses’ 
hoofs, footsteps and approaching voices. 

“Club him! Club him!” shouted some one. 

But the rescuing party were in a dilemma. 
They could not tell which of the struggling forms 
to club. Resolved not to let go of my enemy, with 
my brain reeling and the blood pounding in my 
temples I decided on a desperate expedient. 

“Club us both,” I shouted with my last ounce of 
breath. 

A heavy blow sounded and the figure in my arms 
relaxed. Before I could cry “Hold!” a second 
blow fell. A white light blazed before my eyes and 
I knew no more. 


Chapter IX 
Mine at Last! 


139 







Chapter IX 

They told me afterward that I lay unconscious, 
hovering twixt life and death, for four days. On 
the fifth my temperature rose and I was seized by 
a delirium in which I babbled of early days, my 
boyhood in Derby, travels, dangers, women . . . 
I know not all I said. But paramount in my 
thoughts was Lady Sarah whose name I called at 
intervals. Prior to coming up with Azad’s men I 
had not slept for seventy-two hours. I had ridden 
scores of miles, been wounded a dozen times and 
suffered from the keenest anxiety. The final blow 
on the head, added for good measure, had been the 
death of one less virile. But my will-to-live won 
out. 

On the fifth day I slowly opened my eyes and 
gazed, mystified at the vision above me. It was 
Lady Sarah’s face but through my filmy pupils it 
loomed vague and indefinite like the harvest moon 
in a fog. Then my vision cleared. 

141 


142 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“You?” I questioned. 

She smiled and placed a finger on her lips with 
the familiar nurse’s gesture. 

“Sh . . . you must not talk.” She wore the con¬ 
ventional nursing costume in which all women look 
well. As she turned to busy herself professionally 
with a tray of medicine bottles a mounting tide of 
color suffused her cheeks spreading to the ears and 
neck until they were a rich mahogany. Blessed 
creature! She too had suffered during her vigil. 
At the thought I had an absurd vision of one of 
Giorgione’s red angels bending over me. A weak 
laugh faltered on my lips. She was at my side in 
an instant, bottle in hand. 

“Time for meddy . . . then go bye-bye.” 

She poured out a moderate portion of something 
potent and pre-war. I sank back with a sigh of 
satisfaction. How good she was to me! and how 
gentle! . . . “Meddy” “Bye-bye” “Good-night, 
Nurse.” I was asleep. 


How delightful are convalescent days. The 
mind is so keen and every stage of improvement 
brings such a thrill of adventure from the first bit 
of solid food to sitting up, being read to, talking 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 143 


and the bliss of the first cigarette. Then later came 
visits from friends, dainties sent in and the gradual 
putting-together of the past. Flowers, too—a vase 
of purple bugloss-blossoms from Effendi-Bazam. 
He too had been struck down and barely rescued 
just as two Bassikuni were about to carry out their 
threat of laghouat blida. I wept like a child at his 
tenderness. 

Lord Wimpole’s tent had been turned into a 
sick room while he occupied mine. I do not think 
he liked the arrangement but Lady Sarah had 
taken these matters into her own hands. Little by 
little the story was told me, of how my men had 
turned the tide of battle and annihilated all but a 
handful of Azad’s forces who had fled into the 
desert. Seeing my grievous state a messenger was 
sent to Ab-Domen which resulted in the consolida¬ 
tion of the two caravans. 

“How fortunate you arrived just when you did!” 
exclaimed Lady Sarah one evening, clasping her 
knees in her long bony hands. “Another second 
would have been too late!” 

“Nonsense,” blustered Lord Wimpole pulling 
his stubby moustache, “we should ’ave stood ’em 
off. You can’t break a British Square y’know.” 

“My eye,” said his wife coldly, flicking a cigarette 


144 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


ash in his direction. “They were all over us and 
you know it.” 

Wimpole mooned out of the tent while I was 
telling his lady of my fortunate application of the 
“pons asinorum.” 

“What is that?” she queried. “My French is 
atrocious.” 

“An old geometric theorem; the bridge of asses 
over which every school donkey must pass.” 

“And you did!” she enthused. “How clearly it 
brings home the advantage of a college education.” 

Thus we passed long hours in tender confidence 
during which I told her many things, she listening 
for the most part, as I recounted my life from its 
infancy, with a nursery anecdote here and there, 
some droll saying or madcap prank which I played 
on Miss Stafford, my first teacher. No detail 
seemed too slight to interest this wonderful crea¬ 
ture to whom I vowed to bare my whole existence. 
Step by step I worked my way through infancy to 
adolescence, boyish sports, my skill at mumblety- 
peg, my first affair with Norah Flaherty who 
worked in the melodeon factory . . . 

It was at the close of this tender incident that 
she bent over me late one evening to tuck me in, 
her rose-rimmed eyes glowing into mine. Involun- 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 145 


tarily my arm encircled her gaunt framework 
drawing her down, close . . . close. Thus she 
knelt by my cot for a long moment before she rose 
with an effort at self mastery. 

“I think you can get up tomorrow,” she mur¬ 
mured, and the curtains swished softly on the night 
air. 

“What happened to Azad?” I asked one day. 

Whinney, who was visiting me, flicked an ash 
from his cigarette. 

“Your men claimed him after he came to. They 
buried him, Moplah style, you know?” 

“Rather!” 

I could see the wretched creature hands and feet 
bound, planted up to his neck in hard packed sand. 
The eyes invariably went first, toothsome morsels 
for the vultures,—then came the ants and flies. 

“We kept him alive as long as we could,” said 
my friend, “occasionally that Circassian girl used to 
go out and sprinkle salt and sand on his sore spots.” 

“That will be all for today,” I remarked, for I 
was still weak. 

It was a matter of ten days before I began to 
feel my full strength and resilence returning, days 
of short walks and long rests in a shaded chaise- 
longue . Whinney and Swank had laid out an ex- 


146 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


cellent nine-hole golf course where I was soon able 
to join them. Golf in the desert is a simple affair, 
the course being entirely of sand one needs but two 
clubs, a driver and a niblick. It is like playing in 
a gigantic bunker and my game soon came back to 
me. Then there were afternoons of gazelle and 
gecko hunting with sloughi-hounds, the only dogs 
which can stand the peculiar conditions of the 
desert for which nature has equipped them with 
bushy, protective eye-brows, short beards and curi¬ 
ously splay-toed feet which give them great speed 
over soft sand. Another pastime of our leisure 
hours was the Arab’s favorite pursuit of hawking. 

No standard Sheik travels without his hawk or 
hawks, hung in gay cages from their pack camels 
and the women folk are constantly busy knitting 
hoods for the poor creatures who spend so much of 
their time blindfolded. The reason for this con¬ 
stant blindfolding I had never fully understood 
until Ab-Domen explained it. The theory is that 
a hawk’s eye is only capable of just so much look¬ 
ing and it would therefore be supremely unwise to 
let him wear his eyes out in the contemplation of 
useless objects such as people and camels. Now, 
however, was the hawks’ holiday and the air was 
specked with the graceful creatures careering at 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 147 


dizzy heights like motes in a sunbeam. They are re¬ 
called by a whistle which they obey with the marvel¬ 
lous intelligence of a day laborer at the noon hour, 
dropping whatever work they may be engaged in 
to settle quietly on their masters’ wrists. 

An exception to this statement must be made in 
the case of a hawk in pursuit of an opapa, a desert 
fowl closely akin to the Australian carpenter-bird 
which it resembles in its hammer-head, saw-bill and 
long, nail-like claws. Many a morning in the Cow- 
ba district (East of Sydney) I have been awakened 
by the building operations of these creatures whose 
nests are solidly framed of gum-wood which is later 
stuccoed with a mixture of bird-lime and feathers. 
But I digress. . . . 

The opapa of which I started to speak is for some 
reason unknown to ornithology the deadly enemy 
of the hawk and once sighted is the object of a re¬ 
lentless attack. Seated one day in the encampment 
I witnessed a grewsome battle between two of these 
implacable rivals of the air. The recall had been 
sounded, but the hawk paid no attention to it. His 
one thought was the complete annihilation of his an¬ 
tagonist which he accomplished by repeated at¬ 
tacks, closing-in, ripping-off tender strips of flesh 
and actually devouring the entire carcass save 


148 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


the saw-bill, bony hammer-head and nails; in other 
words, the hawk, in mid-air ate the artisan and 
dropped only the tools, after which he returned 
peaceably to his master. 

But our position in the camp was becoming in¬ 
creasingly difficult. Our water supply had been 
thrice replenished from the Tabala station which 
was at an inconvenient distance. Moreover the 
guardian of the wells began to protest against our 
frequent calls. “Caravans come and caravans de¬ 
part, but you are repeaters,” he said in effect. My 
strength now was completely restored; under my 
folding burnous I could feel the steel contours of 
hardening biceps, triceps and forceps. Will-power, 
ambition, the old love of adventure were again in 
the ascendant. 

Now arose a difficulty which was destined to re¬ 
sult in vital consequences. I refer to the division 
of responsibility between Lord Wimpole and my¬ 
self. Here were two caravans each with an ac¬ 
knowledged leader. During my illness the supreme 
command had fallen in the Englishman’s hands. 
Incompetent though he was he could not bring 
himself to relinquish it. Temporary power had 
gone to the little lace-maker’s head and the inevi¬ 
table battle of wills began. The first open break 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 149 


occurred during a discussion as to future plans. 
Wimpole was all for a continuation of the life of 
ease and luxury which so well suited him. His 
absurd suggestion was an immediate removal to 
Tabala with an indefinite stay there. My decision 
was to push on to the beckoning East according to 
my original plans. In vain we argued. “Very 
well, we split,” said his lordship, his brow like 
thunder, his lower lip protruding like a camel’s. 

The thought of leaving Lady Sarah was unbear¬ 
able. Nevertheless with a heavy heart I resolved on 
the sacrifice, ordering Ab-Domen to make prepara¬ 
tions for our departure. But an incident occurred 
which modified this laudable design. 

Wimpole, since his re-establishment in his own 
tent, had reverted to his old manner of brawling 
domesticity. Sounds of strife resounded nightly 
from their quarters, the grumbling of his heavy 
voice, rising to imprecation, the crash of china and 
an occasional cry of protest from his unfortunate 
wife. Nevertheless, as far as I knew, he had not re¬ 
sorted to open violence. Pained and apprehensive 
I continued my preparations. Daily the doolahs 
trotted to and fro busily loading the camel-packs 
and striking all but the necessary tents. The eve 
of our separation arrived. 


TWIN BEDOUINS OF THE EAST 

Traprock and Wbinney constantly on guard against possible 
surprise. 




150 



Twin Bedouins of the East 


































' 












































































. . 








. 

1 


















rat > 

' 

*■ 


























SARAH OF THE SAHARA 153 


The Wimpoles gave a dinner in their luxurious 
dining-tent. I sat on Lady Sarah’s right, her 
husband being at the other end of the table. It 
was a mournful feast. My heart was too full for 
food but I quaffed the succession of vintage wines 
with reckless abandon. Our last evening together! 
At the thought my hand stole neath the napery to 
be met by that of my loved-one which awaited me 
as a bird awaits its mate. 

“Up Jenkins!” cried Swank gaily. I crushed 
him with a look. But my caution was useless. At 
his end of the table Lord Wimpole was already far 
gone in drink. He was playing a harmonica, his 
favorite pastime when thus afflicted. Back of his 
chair Effendi patiently awaited his final collapse. 
His mental attitude was particularly quarrelsome 
and as the libations gained their mastery he be¬ 
came more and more provocative until Lady Wim¬ 
pole rose with a sigh and moved toward the tent 
entrance. There she turned and her lips silently 
framed the words “Follow me,” a command I 
was able to obey almost instantly as my host was 
engaged in an interminable story which he had told 
twice before. 

Stepping beyond the circle of light I peered in¬ 
to the gloom. Lady Sarah’s figure was dimly 


154 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


visible, a patch of gray against the blackness. 
Joining her we strolled well beyond ear-shot. And 
yet we did not speak. 

What was in our hearts lay too deep for words. 
It was the moment of supreme renunciation. She 
looked long and searchingly in my eyes and at 
last words came. 

“My Sheik!” she murmured, resting her hands 
on my shoulders. 

I drew her, trembling, to me. 

“Lady Sarah,” I whispered, lifting her heavy 
fringe of bobbed hair that she might hear 
my low heart’s cry, “my Sarah of the Sahara, 
we have had our little hour, thee and I. Now, 
by the law of thy people we must part. But 
by the law of my adopted people, the Moplahs, 
thou art mine, my desert woman, my sweet sand 
lark.” 

She drew back affrighted. Though I had 
spoken before in an exalted strain I had never so 
definitely approached the topic of love. Then she 
took my hand again. 

“O, El-Dhub,—” she said, “what you say is 
sweet and true. Thy words are as the nightingale’s 
song. My heart and my love are indeed thine, but 
see how I am encompassed . . . By all the laws of 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 155 


my people I am bound to my over-lord yonder 
. . . I cannot free myself . . .” 

From the glowing tent burst a wild strain of 
harmonica music, fierce, exultant. 

“God pity me!” I cried. “Farewell!” 

Choking with emotion I staggered to the tent. 

“Swank!—Whinney!—we start at once.” 

They tumbled from their places. 

“You are mad! At this hour? Man alive ...” 

“Very well . . . Call Ab-Domen ... he and 
I will starf ahead with four camels. I must ride 
tonight.” 

As they obeyed my order Lady Sarah slipped 
by me into the tent, her eyes dark with pain. Ab- 
Domen sleepily led out a small group of camels 
and the necessaries for our advance party. 

“Due East,” I said to Whinney, “leave out 
Tabala and proceed to the next station at Ham- 
mababa. We will await you there.” 

“Right-o—Goodbye . . . and good luck. We 
ought to get there in three days.” 

My friends turned in for they needed sleep bad¬ 
ly. A few moments later Ab-Domen and I were 
ready for departure. Suddenly a piercing scream 
rang from the Wimpoles’ tents and Lady Sarah 
rushed into the night. 


156 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“El-Dhub!” 

“Here,” I answered. 

“O, take me with you. Look ... he has done 
it again.” 

She held up her arm and I saw the deep teeth 
marks of her dog of a husband. 

“Damn him ... I will kill him ’ere we go.” 

“No, no,” she cried. “I think I have done that 
... I struck him . . . with a chafing dish.” 

“Up, then . . . mount.” 

She took her place on one of the camels. There 
was no thought of hesitation. Forth we fared on 
the swiftest of my bactrians forth into the velvet 
night. Our camels travelled tactfully side by side. 
So matched were their gaits that Lady Sarah could 
rest her head on my shoulder as we rode. It was 
not until six hours later, in the dawn, that I dis¬ 
covered that sometime during the night Ab- 
Domen, the wily old devil, had given us the slip. 


Chapter X 
Death in the Desert 


\ 


157 

















Chapter X 

“Do you see anything?” 

“No.” I lowered my binoculars. 

“’Straordinary!” 

Lady Sarah spoke casually but I detected the 
undertone of anxiety in her voice. 

We had now been three days in the desert. To 
put the matter shortly, we were lost. Gaze as we 
might there was no sign of the Hammababa station 
nor of any other. Ab-Domen Allah’s defection 
had doubtless been well-meant. Under more 
sophisticated conditions he had acted similarly be¬ 
fore; but his absence now was deadly serious. 
Versed as he was in the art of star-reading, a mem¬ 
ber in good standing of the Desert Trails Club, it 
would have been simple for him to set us on the 
right track. Also, relying on his knowledge I had 
taken no pains to look up constellations, distances, 
or direction. Our progress was a blind advance, 
made the more so by our blinding love. 

159 


160 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Ah, Sarah, my desert dish, canst thou forget that 
joyous pilgrimage neath the myriad eyes of night, 
throughout which I ever remained thy slave, rever¬ 
ent, respectful, devoted? 

Be that as it may, we should have come up with 
Hammababa long ago but never so much as a 
palm frond had we seen. The devil of a camel is 
that once off the proper direction he keeps right 
on in the wrong one without the slightest devia¬ 
tion. Nothing like instinct ever troubles them. 
The desert is sprinkled with the bones of fool 
beasts that have pursued this single-track policy 
into places where there wasn’t a sign of sustenance 
and where they have just naturally died. 

This thought did not cheer me any more than 
the condition of our water supply. I figured that 
if we had overshot Hammababa we might possibly 
hit the water-hole at Rhat, but this was a long 
chance which I should have hated to back with any 
real money. 

When one is lost in the desert one doesn’t say 
much about it. It is not at all like being on the 
wrong road in a motor where a man’s wife always 
knows he is wrong and loudly proclaims it. Lady 
Sarah was a trump; she never peeped. We just 
kept plodding on late at night and early in the 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 161 


morning, resting during the heat of the day and 
neither of us voicing our suspicions. Finally on 
the morning of the fourth day I thought it was up 
to me to say something. 

“Do you know, Lady Sarah,” I began—“I sus¬ 
pect that this sort of thing isn’t getting us any¬ 
where.” 

“Nowhere that matters apparently,” she said 
calmly. Then, pointing skyward. “Have you 
seen those kites?” 

I had seen them, first one, then two . . . then 
two more . . . appearing for just a second in the 
sky, then vanishing, and I knew what they meant. 
Shaking off a chill of forboding I dismissed the 
foul creatures with an intrepid wave of my hand. 

“Our bones were not born to be bleached,” I said 
cheerily. 

“Here’s hoping,” was the brave reply. 

Thus began the fourth day. It was a day of 
forced riding. Riding the lead-camel I urged the 
beasts to their best gait, keeping a close eye on my 
pocket compass. 

“Hew to the East, let the sand fall where it 
may,” was my thought. Pad . . . fell the 
cushioned feet of our animals, pad . . . pad . . . 
pad . . . mile after mile into nothingness. From 


162 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


noon until four o’clock we rested, then, on—until 
nearly midnight when we sank exhausted for a 
few hours’ sleep. Food and water supply were 
running low. “Tomorrow,” I thought, “we must 
find something!” closing my eyes on the desperate 
hope. 

I awoke to a fresh catastrophe. In organizing 
our flight-caravan Ab-Domen had included an 
extra pack-camel, an Asian dromedary, the mean¬ 
est type known to man. This made five beasts in 
all. Due to thirst and exhaustion they were nerv¬ 
ous and irritable. The sound which aroused me 
was a loud roar almost human in its savageness. 

The dromedary had attacked my high spirited 
mount and before I could shout a word of com¬ 
mand or interfere in any way the entire group 
were mixed in an inextricable battle-royal. A 
fight between two camels is a dangerous thing to 
approach; five made a storm center which was as 
menacing as a buzz-saw. 

Amid a wild bellowing they charged, bumped, 
bit, kicked, whirled and fell, lashing, thrashing, 
smashing . . . my heart sank as I heard the 
rending crack of bone against bone. After a mad 
half-hour they lay compactly locked, exhausted, 
blood-shot, panting and glaring, hump locked with 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 163 


hump, teeth bedded in soft flesh, legs protruding 
at every angle like a pile of animal jack-straws. 

When I was able to drag them, one by one, apart 
I knew that the worst had befallen us. Out of 
twenty legs, seventeen were broken! Not a single 
beast was able to stand. 

“Tremendous, wasn’t it?” said Lady Sarah. 

I nodded. In spite of its import the tragedy 
could not fail to be spectacular. 

“Better milk the female,” I said. 

Lady Sarah managed to extract about a gallon 
from our only cow-camel. With heavy hearts and 
heavier loads we began our fateful march across 
the wastes—afoot. 

Just how long or how far we walked is not quite 
clear in my mind. At times we were unreasonably 
gay. Day and night became confused. We 
struggled on when we were not too exhausted. 
Snatches of an old refrain, “The Japanese Sand¬ 
man,” burst from my lips; then I would sing the 
old Indian love lyric “Cold hands I held, behind 
the Samo-va-ah, where are you now,—where are- 
ah you now?” And we would both weep, watching 
our tears vanish in the aridity underfoot, “like 
snow upon the desert’s dusty face.” 

On an undated day we lay down for what we 


164 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


felt to be our last rest. We had done our best and 
it was not enough. In the early dawn Fate 
mocked us again. A tractor caravan passed at a 
distance of half a mile, part of the regular bus line 
between Tripoli and Assouan, their head lights 
shining dimly in the wan light. Struggling to my 
feet I tried to run toward them. Ignominious 
though it might be to be rescued by such contrap¬ 
tions I had another’s life to consider. “Jitney!” 
I shouted—“Jitney,” but the noise of their motors 
drowned my voice and, the effort proving too 
much, I fell forward, gazing mournfully after the 
receding tail-lights, two dim, red sparks that rose 
and fell and vanished. 

“What was it?” asked Lady Sarah, half-aroused. 

“Citroens,” I answered. 

“French . . . for lemons,” she said with a weak 
smile, sinking again to lethargy. 

Later in the day we managed to advance a few 
miles. I think we crawled part of the way. All 
supplies were now exhausted. I was burned like 
a cinder; Lady Sarah was a flaming red—she 
never tanned; she was peeling, I remember, but 
still beautiful. Suddenly I sank back and pointed 
with trembling finger—“Look! Look!” I cried 
through cracked lips. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 165 


Before us not over a mile away, in a low de¬ 
pression of the desert, lay water! blessed water, 
fringed with green trees, to which I could see ani¬ 
mals coming to drink, impola, umpahs, gazelles and 
countless birds. 

“The Rhat-hole,” I shouted, “Courage! dear 
witch; we shall win through yet.” 

Yard by yard we made our painful advance. 
The details grew clearer until in my fevered 
imagination I could hear the cool splash of the 
pool. And then, with the suddenness of a cinema 
fade-out the picture vanished. 

“Mirage,” I gasped. 

There was no answer. Lady Sarah had fainted. 

A hoarse kite-cackle sounded in my ears as I 
too sank in merciful oblivion. 

































Chapter XI 
Antony and Cleopatra 


107 
























Chapter XI 


“You say you followed the kites?” I asked. 

“Yes, Your Altitude,” said Ab-Domen, “for 
several days I kept away, for I thought you might 
wish . . . that is . . . the lady . . he grinned 
maliciously. 

“It was not pre-arranged,” I said coldly. 

“Then I began to see the birds,” he continued. 
“I was worried. When I found your smashed 
camels—by the way, you were lucky in one 
respect for the beasts attracted the birds and held 
them back for a day—then I was really worried. 
I knew I should be useless without supplies so I 
rode at top speed to the caravan, changed camels 
for horses and overtook you—just in time.” 

“Good old Ab-Domen,” said Lady Sarah pat¬ 
ting the oriental’s shoulder. 

We were resting at the Rhat-hole which was not 
so far away as we had supposed. The mirage we 
had seen was of the close-range variety and had 

169 


170 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


we had sufficient strength to keep on we might 
have reached it for ourselves. 

Our camp was at some distance from the pool 
in order not to disturb the wild life to which it is 
so necessary a feature. These desert water-holes 
differ in character from the South African variety. 
The vegetation is less dense and more low-growing 
and the animals are mostly limited to those of the 
locality, jerboa, jackals, whiffle-hens and so on. 

We did no shooting for it has always seemed to 
me extremely unsporting to kill unsuspecting 
animals while they are satisfying their thirst. It 
was sufficiently entertaining to sit quietly in our 
compound and watch the amazing variety of 
visitors to the filthy but refreshing waters. Be¬ 
ing the only source of supply in a large area it was 
occasionally visited by creatures whose natural 
habitat was many miles away. Among others a 
lean elephant who had evidently strayed far from 
his haunts to the southward. He was one of the 
lop-eared Sudanese type, almost dying of thirst. 
It was interesting to see how in his case neces¬ 
sity became the mother of invention for, having 
drunk as much as he could, he proceeded to fill his 
trunk against future need, hanging the end over 
his ear in order to conserve the precious liquid. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 171 


Here, too, we got our first hint of the distant 
Nile country toward which we were aiming. A 
group of ibis stalked along the edge of the pool 
while, keeping very much to himself, I saw a 
specimen of the rare Egyptian wart-hog whose 
snout is spiraled to aid him in piercing the sand 
in search of lizard-eggs, his favorite food. 

Our way was now comparatively easy. We were 
in the region of Anglo-Egyptian influence where 
the efficiency of the British Government has 
established a chain of oases at distances much near¬ 
er thaij that provided by nature. Where water 
does not exist in natural wells it has been reached 
by boring or is piped in. Ab-Domen checked off 
the list of probable station stops. Wun, Borku, 
Liffi Ganda—the largest of the artesian oases,— 
Bongo, Meshra and so on, straight to the Egyptian 
frontier . . . 

It seemed unwise to leave Ab-Domen at this 
juncture for every time I had done so the results 
had been unfortunate. As I looked back on my 
plight in Azad’s camp and my narrow escape from 
death in the company of my bronze beauty I 
realized that now, if ever, was a time for playing 
safe. Lord Wimpole was left behind, a thing of the 
past, lost, to all intents and purposes, in the desert. 


172 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


“He was carted off to Tabala the morning after 
you and Lady Sarah left,” Swank told me. “He 
hadn’t come-to when they started so I don’t know 
how he took her departure.” 

Much I cared! I snapped my fingers. 

Restored to health, nourished with a generous 
supply of delicious food, my monumental desert 
mate was more lovely than ever. The peeling 
process was over and she appeared re-born, a 
creature of red and gold. How I looked forward 
to the Nile, with all its romantic associations. 

The river came in sight at last after what seemed 
interminable days crossing the low Wady Mahall 
hills. Late one afternoon I caught its silver sheen 
where it wound its way between the fresh green of 
the rice fields. 

“Look!” I pointed. “ ’Tis the Nile, O, my be¬ 
loved.” 

“My Antony!” . . . she scarcely breathed the 
name. She was really wonderful in her way of 
catching the spirit and elevation of the moment; 
her early education must have been thorough. 

Our last day’s march was through fields of 
Egyptian cotton and Lady Sarah made a remark 
that startled me. 

“Horace owns slathers of this,” she said. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 173 


I grimaced at the name which showed she was 
thinking of him, and quickly drew her attention 
to a lovely field of sesame and lilies planted in al¬ 
ternate rows. Here and there a band of native 
workmen were weeding the vegetable-ivory-plants 
in preparation for the annual inundation. So 
shallow was the alluvial loam that their rude im¬ 
plements frequently reached the underlying sand 
rich with the records of past centuries, for this 
entire valley is but the graveyard of earlier civili¬ 
zations. Our passing excited mild wonder and one 
brawny Nubian tossed me a skull which Whinney 
said was clearly that of a man of the bone-age. 
How petty seemed the ticking of my wrist-watch 
measured by the chronology of these mute memo¬ 
rials ! 

We intercepted the river in its upper reaches 
between the third and fourth cataracts, which are 
little more than rapids. In the village of Hannik 
we rested, part of the caravan continuing to Red 
Sea ports while my camels guided by Ab-Domen 
turned northward along the river bank. Acting as 
my advance agent the faithful Turk made splendid 
arrangements for river boats between the cataracts 
and lower down at Assouan I found a magnificent 
dahabeah. 


AN EGYPTIAN DEITY 

Bel-Toto, one of the lovely servitors of Lady Sarah on her 
dahabeah, the El-Sali. 


174 




An Egyptian Deity 















* 

















































' 












































































, 






























' 






















i be i ■ a 
















SARAH OF THE SAHARA 177 


It was the most comfortable craft of its kind 
that could be devised and was painted a brilliant 
emerald green. Lady Sarah’s favorite color. Ab- 
Domen had not overlooked her name, El-Sali, in 
the vernacular, which adorned the bow. Crew, 
supplies, all were in readiness. 

In the cabins lay fresh clothes suited to the 
locality and climate. A native fellah in immac¬ 
ulate white bounded forth whenever I clapped 
my hands while Lady Sarah’s needs were looked 
after by a dusky Syrian maid who fawned at her 
feet or swung her fan until we sent her away on 
one pretext or another. My desert queen was a 
gorgeous picture when she first mounted the com¬ 
panion-way steps and stood under the green and 
white awning. She wore a kaftan or portiere of 
brilliant blue draped over her shoulders, its fringe 
in which were hung small silver bells, reaching to 
her knees. This was supplemented by green silk 
trousers of ankle length, sandals and a soft scarf. 
All nails, both toe and finger, were bright with 
rouge and the underlids of her eyes were deep 
blue with native Kohl. She was an arresting 
sight. 

Everywhere were jewels or pendant ornaments, 
bangles for wrist and ankle, and long jade ear- 


178 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


rings so that she clinked when she walked like a 
tray-full of drinks. I had donned a light weight 
burnous of two-inch striped material suitable for a 
man in the early forties and discarded my heavy 
Moplah turban for a tarbush . Our servants, 
overcome by our beauty, backed down the com¬ 
panion-way crying upon Allah to protect them 
from such blighting splendor. 

Of all the days of my life those which succeeded 
are perhaps the most beautiful. Can one imagine 
more exquisite conditions? Alone with the object 
of one’s adoration on the wonderful Nile, the most 
sentimental and sedimental of rivers. It was a 
voyage through Paradise, the life of lovers in 
lotus-land . . . 

Swank and Whinney, in a smaller craft, fol¬ 
lowed our course. For the passengers of El-Sali 
life was an uninterrupted dream. Day followed 
bright day in this rainless land while we drifted 
lazily on our way watching the panorama of palms 
and quiet river life, natives gathering locusts from 
which they squeezed the honey, green-and-gold 
ichneumons flashing in the sun, shimmering fields 
of henna and fragrant basil, fishermen seeking 
ancient carp and the curious boyad which has 
feathers in place of scales, children playing with 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 179 


a tetrodon or ball-fish which they toss about gaily, 
whispering groves of mulberry trees, marshes 
pink with mallow amid which stood flaming 
flamingos and ibis both sacred and profane, water 
buffalo, okaki, coneys . . . there was no end to 
the variety and interest. Occasionally we stopped 
at native villages and wandered in to the little 
bazaars inspecting the curious wares, purchasing 
here and there a graceful reed basket, an ornament 
of native turquoise and silver or a roughly cut 
emerald from the mines at Jebel Zabara. 

Ab-Domen had given orders for our entertain¬ 
ment and nightly we were hailed by dancers and 
singers from the shore or in boats. These came 
aboard, Swank and Whinney joined us and we 
watched their performances. Some of the der¬ 
vishes were remarkable. 

Further down the river we began to pass the 
tombs and monuments of the ancient dynasties and 
here the entertainments became more and more 
elaborate for Ab-Domen cleverly utilized the 
crumbling temples, gigantic columns and seated 
figures as a background for the performers. At 
the temple of Philae, notably, he put on a superb 
show with three principals and a chorus of six 
Egyptian beauties which caused Swank and 


180 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Whinney to tie their dahabeah alongside forth¬ 
with. 

Late into the starry night I sat with my loved 
one, continuing the story of my life which had 
been so often interrupted, filling in the details of 
my college career with its mad, glad days and 
then my plunge into exploration, the wonderful 
things I had accomplished, the people I had met, 
the honors ... it is not my way to talk about 
myself but I felt I should tell all to this wonderful 
woman. She was such a superb listener, quiet, 
mute. 

“Say something,” I murmured, brushing her 
locks, sweet with jasmine and asphodel, “speak, my 
oleander.” 

“I am speechless,” she said. 

I have always loved women of that sort, the 
simple, quiet ones,—broad between the eyes,—are 
they bovine? stupid? I do not know. They listen 
to me. 

Thus Lady Sarah lay in her chaise-longue , 
quiet, smiling, listening to my odyssey. Some¬ 
times her eyes closed and it almost seemed she 
slept . . . 


Chapter XII 
The Tomb of Dimitrino 


181 







Chapter XII 

It is not my way to pass through a country with¬ 
out drawing from it as much information and in¬ 
terest as possible. All my life I have been a close 
student of archeology and here was an opportunity 
not to be missed of pursuing certain investigations 
which had been attempted by others and which I 
myself had begun and abandoned when the war 
called all able-bodied men to the colors. 

Like all Englishwomen Lady Sarah had a keen 
interest in investigations of this sort and heartily 
seconded the suggestion that I should give a day 
or two to the clearing up of some of the dynastic 
mysteries which have baffled historians for many 
years. 

“But I can’t go with you, my dear,” she said. 
“These pyramids and sphinxes and things are 
simply infested with people from home ... it 
wouldn’t do, you know , . . after I get my 
divorce, all right, but until then . . 

183 


184 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


How sane she was! 

I left her in the dahabeah, watched over by Ab- 
Domen who had by this time safely convoyed his 
camels to Cairo. 

“For three days only,” I whispered, holding her 
tightly, “more than that I could not bear,” and 
without daring to look back I fled. 

My objective was in the nearby terrain of the 
Valley of Kings but I knew better than to search 
in the actual valley itself which has been com¬ 
pletely mussed by the hundreds of excavators who 
have sought the missing chapers of Egyptian 
history. Here, it is true, they have found much 
that is interesting and worth-while. The recent 
discovery of the tomb of King Tut-Ankh-Amen 
was a creditable performance. But I was after 
bigger game than that! 

In beginning my quest I was greatly aided by 
certain papers which I had purchased many years 
ago from an old Levantine in Aden. He knew 
little of their value or I should never have secured 
them but vague markings on the first documents 
told me that the packet belonged originally in the 
library of Alexander the Great. Later they found 
their way into the archives of the Bab-el-Mandeb 
himself. Need I say more? 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 185 


I therefore kept to the north of the beaten track 
of exploration. The expressions on the faces of 
numerous excavating parties which we passed were 
amusing. They considered me insane to search 
for buried testimony in a location to which no 
reference was made in their data. Such is the 
narrowness of many learned men. 

Our group was small consisting of not more 
than a score of doolajis in addition to my usual 
companions Swank and Whinney. Five camels 
carried the provisions and tools. The indications 
contained in my papers was so precise that I felt 
that I could verify their statements with very little 
delay. Either they were true or false and that 
could be soon determined. 

It was necessary to lay a very careful course 
following the exact compass-directions of my 
palimpset. This done we were soon swallowed 
up in the immensity of the desert. It was strange 
how, like a great mother, the land enveloped and 
enfolded us. But now I trudged it with different 
feelings for back of me, waiting in the dahabeah, 
was Sarah, my tiger-mate, my tawny desert-rose! 
Our plan was to go immediately to Paris where 
she was to join the American divorce colony, for 
she wished to be forever freed from her outrageous 


ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASSOUAN 

Native musician performing on the Balipsa, one of the earliest 
Egyptian wind-instruments. 


186 



» 


On the Outskirts of Assouan 
















- 











' 

' 

I • . 































































* 





















































* 
































. 

9 

























« 

« - N 

' 










■». r 







SARAH OF THE SAHARA 189 


husband. This being decided, I urged her to make 
haste so that the teeth-marks might still be shown 
in evidence, for they were rapidly paling. Wim- 
pole!—the cur . . . what had become of him? 

Revolving these matters we marched on, stop¬ 
ping at the end of five hours for luncheon and a 
siesta. Here the doolahs resorted to a curious 
trick for, by wriggling their bodies, they wormed 
their way into the sand and completely disap¬ 
peared save for an occasional toe, elbow or knee¬ 
cap which lay, oddly detached, on the burning 
floor. In this way they escaped the direct rays of 
the deadly sun. Three hours later the march was 
resumed. 

Not long after I ordered a halt. We had 
reached a point as near as I wished to go to the 
object of my search, for it was a part of my plan 
to make the actual discovery alone. Much as I 
respected the two men who were with me I was 
too old a bird to ignore the fact that practically 
every great discovery is marred by an attempt to 
divide the credit. In matters of this sort it is best 
to be alone. 

Camp for the night being established I quietly 
strolled off by myself. The sun still hung well 
above the horizon and I estimated that I had fully 


190 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


two hours of daylight, though I took an electric 
flash light as an extra precaution. The character 
of the surrounding country was peculiar in the 
extreme, consisting of thousands of small dome¬ 
like hills like bee-hives, each so like the other that 
my sense of orientation was instantly lost. Not 
over a half a mile from camp I looked for our 
party and realized with a start that I was search¬ 
ing in exactly the opposite direction from the 
right one. 

“Careful!” I thought, studying my compass: 
“this is dangerous country to travel in.” 

In a few moments the camp had disappeared. 
Proceeding with the greatest care and constantly 
consulting both my papers and my compass I 
steered as straight a course as possible between 
the soft hillocks. An evening wind was rising and 
I noticed that its slightest breath was sufficient to 
ripple the hill-sides like shaken silk. In a strong¬ 
er blast the mounds must actually move. Not 
without a sense of disquiet I observed that the 
landscape back of me had already changed slight¬ 
ly—or did it only seem so? 

One hour of my precious time had passed. 
Should I go on—or return? Hesitating, a fresh 
detail lured me forward. To the north-west and 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 191 


dominating the surrounding mounds rose one con¬ 
siderably higher. According to my documents I 
should now be at the site of the most astounding 
discovery possible in this corner of the world. Re¬ 
solved to make a last inspection from this hill I 
made my way toward it. 

Even as I ascended its eastern side a thrill crept 
up my spine for I could see that the ground sloped 
sharply away to the west which, my papers said, 
it should do. And on the top of the knoll I stood 
aghast. 

Yes! it was true. I had found it. I, Walter 
Traprock, American, stood awed, silent and alone, 
looking down into the Lost Valley of Bulls, the 
burial place of Dimitrino, the First of the 
Pharaohs. 

Let me say here that I do not belittle the im¬ 
portance of Tut-Ankh-Amen, but may I also 
point out that he has been widely acclaimed be¬ 
cause he was the last of the Pharaohs? Dimitrino, 
I repeat, was the first It is obvious to whom the 
greater credit must go. Year after year, for cen¬ 
turies, historians have groped for some allusion, 
some hint which should guide them to the spot 
which lay before me. 

The tomb occupied the center of a small valley 


192 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


in which the purple dusk already lay heavy. 
Against my better judgment, chuckling excitedly, 
I ploughed down the sloping banks, passed be¬ 
tween two gigantic porphyry bulls and finally stood 
beside the mausoleum itself. Though intending 
to make only a cursory examination one exciting 
detail led to another. The smoothly worked 
granite blocks with their close joints excited my 
wonder. Near the top of the dome in a band of 
ornamentation I noted a bronze ring artfully 
worked in the design. It was comparatively easy 
to climb the curving sides and reach this stone. 
It was large and I had not the faintest idea that 
it would move. Imagine my surprise then when 
it slid slowly under a strong pull and I gazed 
down through a square opening into the blackness 
of the actual burial chamber. With a thrill of 
fear I bent forward, head and shoulders through 
the aperture and flooded the great room with my 
flashlight. Wonder of wonders! What splendors 
lay below me. 

I had only time to glimpse a dazzling array of 
gold and brilliant color when my legs were sud¬ 
denly lifted up from behind and I was thrust vio¬ 
lently forward through the opening. Twisting as 
I fell I quickly flashed my light upward. The 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 193 


great stone was slowly sliding into place but in 
the narrowing space the beam of my flash fell on 
the distorted features of Horace Wimpole. 

My head suddenly swam with dizziness and I 
fainted. 











Chapter XIII 
Buried Alive 


195 















% 

9 






Chapter XIII 

My revival was sudden and violent. For a 
second I lay semi-conscious; then realizing my 
predicament, every fibre rebelled at the ridiculous 
situation. Caught . . . caught again, like a rat in 
my own trap. Blindly I rushed about in the black¬ 
ness of the tomb. Underfoot resounded the crash 
of fragile furniture, the splintering of priceless 
relics. My head struck some sort of musical in¬ 
strument built on the tambourine order which fell 
to the floor with a weird jangling of copper discs. 
Then I stumbled over a great urn and lay panting 
amid the fragments. 

Where was my light? In a sickening panic I 
groped for it . . . thank God! my hand closed 
about it almost instantly ... perspiration dripped 
from my forehead. I did not press the button of 
my flash at once. Somewhat calmed by its posses¬ 
sion I brooded bitterly, glad that the darkness 
could hide me from myself. Fool! . . . fool that 

197 


198 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


I was to have been so trapped ... to have felt 
so fatuously secure. Not a thought had I given 
to Wimpole during my exquisite “reve d 3 amour.” 
He was dismissed . . . waved away like a wraith. 
But he had materialized. 

How had he done it? 

A score of answers thronged my brain. Dis¬ 
guised, perhaps he had accompanied me, mingling 
with my humble doolajis or, more probably, had 
followed me, keeping apart, weaving his way, 
snake-like, through the hills, watching and waiting 
to strike the dastard blow. G’r-r-r ... I ground 
my teeth in impotent rage. 

But stay . . . this was idiotic. Gradually I 
calmed and for the first time switched on my light. 
Playing it on the ceiling I realized that all trace of 
the moveable stone was lost in the complicated 
decoration. Climbing a wall which curves inward 
is one of the most difficult feats in the world, 
though I have been able to do it in the past. But 
now it seemed so futile. Any search of the ceiling 
would have lacked direction. Without moving I 
gazed sombrely about me. 

I was buried alive, there was no getting away 
from that. Having chewed this bitter cud for 
several minutes I resolved to put my spiritual 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 199 


house in order, so to speak. My first act was to 
make my will, something I had frequently pro¬ 
posed and as often postponed. It occurred to me 
now that my position was probably unique in draw¬ 
ing up this last testament after I had been en¬ 
tombed. All that I possessed I left to Lady Sarah 
in fee simple or to her heirs or assigns forever, to 
have and to hold, from now on until death us do 
part—the form was strictly legal and I signed 
Whinney’s name as witness, per W. E. T. to make 
all sure. 

“And now,” I thought, “for my last words.” In 
vain I tried to evolve some simple, compact sentence 
which would epitomize my entire life but the sub¬ 
ject was too large. Finally I compromised on a 
five-hundred word obituary outlining the main 
events of my career. I then recited what I could 
remember of the burial service and considered that 
I had been decently laid away. 

With these rites performed I could composedly 
take stock of my surroundings for it occurred to 
me that I could put my time to no better use than 
by writing a careful inventory of the contents of 
the mausoleum. That much at least could remain 
as my legacy to the culture of the world. Then 
for the first time I realized the magnitude of the 


200 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


discovery in which I had so completely lost my¬ 
self. 

For the benefit of those interested in archeology 
I will give a mere outline of the main features, the 
principal one of which was, of course, the basalt 
sarcophagus of the King himself. Beside this in 
a similar receptacle a few sizes smaller lay his 
favorite Queen, Heck-To. Ranged about the 
walls was a dazzling array of royal furniture, 
boxes, chairs, beds, chariots, tables, vases and so 
on. All the latter were of solid gold heavily en¬ 
crusted with gems. Many of the vessels were 
filled with food but the contents of the wine jars 
had unfortunately evaporated so that I could only 
look forward to dry fare for a brief period. 

The picture writing on the walls was of immense 
interest and showed Dimitrino at his favorite pur¬ 
suits, hawking, hunting, catching scarabs and 
playing Mah Jong which even in his day was an 
old game. One intimate close-up portrayed the 
monarch using a dial system telephone which the 
modern world is now re-discovering with so much 
trouble. Another section showed him teaching 
archery to his son who afterwards became Mela- 
chrino I. 

Numerous passages were in verse which, in 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 201 


hieroglyphics, is effected by rhyming the symbols 
in idea, a bird with an egg, a bow with an arrow, 
a snake with a woman, and so on. A scene very 
lovely in color, depicted the Queen’s mother, Eks- 
Ito, being devoured by vultures, the King and his 
son looking on. 

About the sarcophagus stood the tutelar divini¬ 
ties, Psh, Shs, Pst and Tkt, the big four of their 
day. The queen’s lid bore an intaglio of Thothmes 
indicating that she had a hare-lip. Hundreds of 
articles I listed carefully in my note-book, be¬ 
coming completely absorbed in my work. 

Then gradually a chill horror numbed my body. 
My light was going out! There was no doubt 
about it. It was fainter than it had been. The 
battery was fading. To die, thus, in the dark! 

. . . horrible. My determination to complete my 
catalogue drove me to fresh effort. Having com¬ 
pleted the movable objects I made a closer in¬ 
spection of the sarcophagus itself. On the top 
carved in high relief lay a coiled snake. As I 
reached my hand toward it, to my amazement, its 
head raised and I saw the coils stiffen. Across my 
brain flashed the thought that this was the King’s 
“Ka,” his spiritual familiar and guardian. But no, 
that was rot; the creature was alive! 


202 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


Subconsciously a ray of hope sprang in my 
breast. Not realizing just why, I reached my light 
toward the serpent. When it had almost touched 
him he glided silently over the edge of the stone, 
dropped with a thud on the tiled floor and flowed 
like a black stream to the edge, back of a delicate 
table, where he disappeared. 

In a frenzy I hurled the furniture out of the 
way and cast myself on the floor playing my light 
before me. There was the snake’s exit, where a 
tile was loosened against the side wall. And if his 
exit, why not mine? 

Idiot, not to have thought of it before! The 
construction of tombs is peculiar. They have prac¬ 
tically no foundations. In this country with no 
frosts or moisture it is only necessary to go an 
inch or two below the level of the hard-packed 
sand. Dashing the tile aside I felt the surface be¬ 
low. It was friable and crumbled easily under 
my hand. Scratching the sand deeply with my 
penknife I scraped up the top layer with a shal¬ 
low copper bowl. In another moment I was bur¬ 
rowing madly like an excited mole. 

In an hour I was completely submerged. My 
flash was thrust in my breast pocket where I 
could occasionally play its waning beam on the 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 203 


tunnel before me. But I soon learned to do my 
work in the dark, passing the sand back of me and 
worming my way forward. Above me I could feel 
the masonry of the enclosing wall, first on my head, 
then my shoulders, waist . . . legs ... I was 
free of it. 

As I began to turn my tunnel upward the sound 
of a solid slump caused me to play the light over 
my shoulder and look back as well as I could. A 
large mass of sand had fallen from the roof of the 
tunnel. Not being able to dig with my feet or to 
turn in the passage any retreat was cut off. It 
was do or die now and with desperate energy I 
wielded my scoop. 

Strange that I did not reach the surface! On, 
on, I went and still there was no light ahead. My 
sense of direction became confused. Was I going 
upward or digging my grave deeper and more ir¬ 
revocably in the arid earth. My strength, un¬ 
usual though it is, was giving out and this dreadful 
doubt as to my direction served further to sap my 
energy. “One hundred more scoops”—I vowed 
. . . still no air . . . fifty more . . . twenty-five 
ten . . . one ... I broke through. Air, 
blessed air, cool and refreshing as water. Pant¬ 
ing I lay with only my head above ground. It 


204 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


was night, and such a night! blowing a gale with 
the wind heavily freighted with sand. But amid 
the stinging drifts I rolled over and slept the sleep 
of a child. 

The bright sun woke me and I staggered to my 
feet shaking the sand from my garments and star¬ 
ing stupidly before me. My experience came 
back slowly like a confused dream. The tomb. 
O, yes ... the tomb . . . but where was it? I 
rubbed my eyes. There was no tomb. And then 
I realized what had happened. 

During my incarceration the gale had heaped 
the sand-drifts about my prison until it was com¬ 
pletely covered. No trace or trail indicated its 
position. Of my tunnel there was not a vestige 
and I realized why it had taken me so long to reach 
the surface. 

The entire topography had changed. Wily 
old Dimitrino! To tuck his tomb away in this 
shifting, evasive landscape where he was literally 
here today and gone tomorrow! 

Thank Heavens my compass could not run 
down and I still had my records. At the thought 
of the return trip memory re-illumined the flame 
of anger but, close on its searing glow, 
burst the effulgence of love. Faint from hun- 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 205 


ger but buoyed by my inextinguishable passion 
I stumbled through the distorted territory where, 
verily, as the old Hebrew says, “the little hills skip 
like rams.” 




Chapter XIV 
Love Lost 


207 













Chapter XIV 

Early in the dawn I began my return. The 
wind had fallen and progress was not difficult. 
Once out of the curious hill country which had 
again taken the lost Valley of Bulls into its em¬ 
brace it was a simple matter to locate my camp 
which was the only visible object in the open desert. 
My companions were overjoyed at my return for, 
though an overnight absence on my part was not 
unusual, they were always anxious until I put in 
an appearance. 

But their welcome was submerged in their won¬ 
der at my orders for an immediate return to As¬ 
souan. 

“What’s the idea?” questioned Swank, “we’ve 
just got here, we’ve accomplished nothing; 
it s . . . 

I cut him short with a severe glance vouchsafing 
only the remark “Foul play is afoot. Make haste. 

He saw that something serious had happened 

209 


210 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


and obeyed unquestioningly. The rank and file 
of my safari were delighted at the prospect of get¬ 
ting back to the comforts of the more civilized 
river-life. More than once it was on my lips to 
tell my American companions the story of my en¬ 
tombment with all its possibilities of future riches 
and fame, but the thought of Lady Sarah lay too 
heavily on my heart. This burden of apprehension 
I must carry alone. Weighed down with my in¬ 
dividual anguish I plodded silently across the 
sand, my mind too busy with pictures of what 
might have happened to even note the signs of our 
progress, the merging of the desert into the fertile 
fields with their long lines of irrigation ditches, the 
flourishing plantations of capsicum and marrows 
alive with chattering apteryxes and flocks of four¬ 
horned sheep. 

With a start I realized that we were on the out¬ 
skirts of Assouan. 

“Come with me,” I said, detaching my fellow 
countrymen from the natives. We ran on ahead 
and soon came in sight of the El-Sali moored by 
the river bank. She was ominously quiet. Burst¬ 
ing into the salon I gazed upon a picture which 
was the exact counterpart of my most lurid 
imagining. The room was a wreck, curtains torn 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 211 


down, vases broken, rugs twisted, chairs and tables 
overturned. Ab-Domen lay unconscious under 
the ruins of the victrola. A low moaning from 
the apartment beyond led us to Lady Sarah’s maid, 
likewise in the stupor of exhaustion. 

When at last the faithful dragoman was partial¬ 
ly revived he breathed a harrowing story of assault 
and abduction. 

“Lord Wimpole came . . he gasped . . . “he 
had twenty men . . . Lady El Sali fought like a 
tigress . . . you see? . . he motioned weakly 
at the surrounding chaos . . . “I, too, did my best 

“Where did they go?” 

He shook his head. “Down river . . . where to 
I do not know.” 

There is an excellent highway along the Nile 
hank from Assouan to the Delta. In half an hour 
we were on our way, mounted on the best of our 
horses. 

“Sarah!” I screamed in my agony, “it can not be 
that we have lost each other so soon!” 

My only hope was that Wimpole, solacing him¬ 
self with the thought that he had effectually put 
me Jiots dc combed , would loiter on his way. Rut 
this ray was soon extinguished for inquiry at the 


IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMID 

Zaloofa, the slave girl, wearing the costume of the native 
Awabodas. 


212 



In the Shadow of the Pyramid 









































■ 
















• 














I . •' 
















. 




































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


215 


villages on our route informed us that the English¬ 
man’s party had gone through by motor! At the 
word my heart sank; all thought of overtaking him 
was out of the question. Yet, desperately, we kept 
on. 

It was late at night when the lights of Cairo 
twinkled in the distance. Leaving our horses and 
chartering a powerful car we were soon speeding 
towards Alexandria. The first sun’s rays lighted 
the listless sails and gleaming hulls of the ships at 
anchor, battered tramps and giant liners from over¬ 
seas, trim yachts, an occasional sombre battleship 
and thousands of sturdy fishing craft. Two vessels 
were my immediate object, the Wimpole’s Un¬ 
dine and my own Kawa. A long scrutiny from 
the rising ground back of the Port failed to disclose 
them. Parking our car we lost ourselves in the 
forest of masts along the harbor’s edge. It was 
impossible that Triplett had failed me but locating 
him was like finding one’s automobile after a foot¬ 
ball game. Standing on various pier heads I 
cupped my hands and bellowed “Kawa-a-hoy” un¬ 
til I was twice threatened with arrest by the local 
constabulary. Meanwhile Swank and Whinney 
were paging my captain in other directions, the 
former cruising about in a rented rowboat while the 


216 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


latter conducted a personal canvass of the waterside 
drinking-parlors. In one of these Triplett was 
eventually discovered. He was amazed at my early 
arrival. 

“I didn’t look fur ye fur a week,” he protested. 

“Is the Undine in the harbor?” I asked. 

“Wuz, last night . . . takin’ on supplies all day; 
moved out by the lighthouse at sundown.” 

“Quick, man; let’s get aboard. We must board 
her.” 

The Kawa lay surrounded by a huddle of small 
boats the crews of which objected violently to being 
shoved aside hut we forced our way through and 
eventually cleared the end of the pier and stood out 
toward the mole, our kicker-motor chugging val¬ 
iantly. I had fetched my glasses from below and 
soon located the Undine. She was nearly 
two miles distant and to my consternation 
showed every indication of being about to get under 
weigh. 

“We must make better time,” I urged. “Can’t 
we crowd on more sail or do something nautical?” 

“Crowd on nothin’,” said Triplett. “Wind’s 
dead agin us.” He spat sourly as was his wont and 
I knew from the glint of his one useful eye that 
what man could do he would do. Foot by foot we 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 217 


crept up on the slender Undine out of whose buff 
funnel smoke poured with increasing volume. We 
could now see the glint of her brass work and read 
the name under her stern. The squeak of the davit- 
blocks reached us as the tiny launch was hauled up 
and swung in-hoard; then came the clink, clink of 
the capstan. It was up-anchor now and no mistake. 

At that moment Swank made one of the greatest 
blunders of his life and that is saying a lot. Over¬ 
come by excitement he seized a large megaphone 
and before I could stop him raised it and howled 
“Undine a-hoy!” 

“Fool!” I shouted striking the instrument from 
his grasp. 

It was the very thing which he should not have 
done. In quiet we might have slipped alongside. 
Now all was activity aboard the yacht. Sailors 
ran to and fro, bells rang sharply, the anchor swung 
dripping over the bow and a lather of white foam 
bubbled up from the obedient screws. 

We were not over a hundred yards away. In 
desperation I seized the megaphone. Stop, in the 
name of the law,” I shouted; it was all I could think 
of at the time. 

A harsh laugh was my answer followed by a 
shriek, the well-known shriek of my beloved, which 


218 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


tore my heart strings. In the salon I caught a 
glimpse of two struggling figures; then, just as 
other bulky forms intervened, a bright object flew 
through the open porthole. At that moment the 
Undine’s stern swung toward us and gathering 
headway she shrank rapidly to a tiny speck on the 
distant horizon. 

We hove-to. “Lower the dingy,” I ordered. 
Alone I rowed toward the bright object which I 
had seen fly from the cabin window. If it were 
what I hoped . . . yes ... a bottle. Within was 
the briefest sort of message, merely the word . . . 
“Ritz.” 

Back in my cabin I pondered in bitter perplex¬ 
ity. “Ritz?” It was a call to follow her ... it was 
a meeting place . . . but which Ritz? There are 
so many. 

I am not one to give up easily. Gradually a 
scheme formed in my mind. I would establish an 
inter-Ritz communication system with agents in all 
branches. Triplett’s appearance in the doorway in¬ 
terrupted my ruminations. 

“Where to, sir?” he asked. 

“London,” I replied and, a moment later, felt 
the Kawa veer toward the great English city. 


SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


219 


Fate in her inscrutable way was to end my search 
almost before it had begun. Eight weeks later I 
sat in the tea room of the Ritz-Carlton in London. 
Opening my paper I scanned the headlines dealing 
with cable despatches, racing news and financial ex¬ 
change until an item, brutal in its brevity, assaulted 
my attention as with a hammer stroke. 

“Lady Sarah Wimpole Dead.” 

The room swam about me. After a tremendous 
effort at self mastery I was able to read what fol¬ 
lowed. 

“The death of Lady Sarah Wimpole, nee Al- 
leyne, of Alleyne House and Wimpole Manor, Not¬ 
tinghamshire, will come as a shock to her many 
friends. Her medical advisors, Dr. Keech and Dr. 
McGilvray, confess themselves as much mystified 
by the nature of the malady which has proved fatal. 
In all respects the symptoms were those of hydro¬ 
phobia, which is not an admissible diagnosis since 
Lady Wimpole had but just recently landed from 
her yacht, the Undine, upon which she and Lord 
Wimpole have been cruising in Eastern waters. It 
is suspected that the disease may have been con¬ 
veyed by a parrot of which the defunct Peeress was 
very fond and the bird—very wisely in our opinion 
—has been destroyed.” 


SAD MEMORIES 

“The smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection.” 


220 



Sad Memories 


















































, • 

, 














• ^ 

, 














t 




- 































































SARAH OF THE SAHARA 


223 


How clearly the tragedy stood before my eyes. 
Wimpole, mad cur that he was, had had his way! 
My first impulse was to shoot him down as he de¬ 
served. Second thought said no. Let him live 
out his wretched life until un-reason claimed him as 
she was bound to do. Within a year he was incar¬ 
cerated, a hopeless maniac, fighting and biting at 
his keepers. 

Time has softened the pain of this, my most 
tragic adventure. Out of the wreckage of my 
hopes and dreams the lovely moments rise like 
mountains from mist. Sitting alone in my study, 
brooding over the romances of my life, none has 
quite the charm of this, the most disastrous and in¬ 
complete. 

It was my plan—after Lady Sarah’s divorce and 
our marriage—to return to the desert where we had 
great plans for commercial development, the build¬ 
ing of sand-paper mills and hour-glass factories,— 
but there! These were hut bubbles blown away by 
the touch of reality. With our few brief moments 
of complete joy I must be content. 

That I should return to follow out our plans 
alone is inconceivable. All speaks too clearly of 
her influence who called me back to reign 
once more as El-Dhub ak Moplah. The sandy 


224 SARAH OF THE SAHARA 

desert is her likeness. The smooth flowing Nile 
retains her reflection. The rocky features of 
the Sphinx are those of my Sarah of the Sahara. 
Wullahy! 


J} Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. F. PUTNAM S SONS 


Complete Catalogues sent 
on application 


















The 

Cruise of the Kawa 

By 

Dr. Walter E. Traprock, 

F. R. S. S. E. U. 

A delicious literary burlesque 
—superlatively amusing. Here 
are found the wafowak, that 
horrid super-seamonster; the 
gallant fatustiva birds who lay 
square eggs; the flowing hoopa 
bowl, and the sensuous nabiscus 
plant; the tantalizing, tatooing, 
fabulous folk music; the beauti¬ 
ful, trusting Filbertine women 
and their quaint marriage customs, as well as the 
dread results of the white man’s coming—all described 
with a frank freedom, literary charm, and meticulous 
regard for truth which is delightful. 

The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the 
literature of modern exploration. Nothing like it has 
ever come out of the South Seas. It is the travel book 
of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special 
photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the 
exciting, amusing, and entertaining story of an explo¬ 
ration in the South Seas. 



G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


New York 


London 







My Northern 
Exposure 

The Kawa at the Pole 

By 

E. Traprock 

Similar in format to the 
famous Cruise of the 
Kawa, this new volume 
carries the reader on an 
exciting and riotously 
funny expedition to the 
frozen north. It is an 
account of the adven¬ 
tures of the redoubtable 
Dr. Traprock (and party) 
who set out to discover the real North Pole— 
but undertake their voyage in a most un¬ 
usual manner. The incidents, accidents, and 
final discoveries in this merry burlesque are 
certain to afford as much, if, indeed, not more 
enjoyment than the first Kawa story. 

21 gorgeous full page illustrations. 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 


Walter 


MY NORTHERN 
EXPOSURE 

THE KAWA AT THE POLE 





































































\ 


























































s 






























